


The Archivist's Moving Castle

by Hallali



Category: Howl no Ugoku Shiro | Howl's Moving Castle, Howl's Moving Castle - All Media Types, The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Howl's Moving Castle Fusion, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barnabas as Suliman's skull tho? Galaxy brain, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Friends to Mutual Nuisance to Friends to Lovers..., I might as well tag this as a recovery fic at this point, It's fused enough that you probably don't need to know the book beforehand?, M/M, More likely to be book compliant - kind of - I'm playing with both fandoms here, Multi, Not Beta Read, Slow Build, Slow Burn, background Daisira, the horror takes a backseat from chapter 8 onward, there's like 15k words of exposition before the adventure starts so buckle up, y'all everyone and their mom casted Gerry as Calcifer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 65,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23371087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hallali/pseuds/Hallali
Summary: In a land where magic and horrifying creatures take great joy in terrorizing the ordinary folks, Martin's life has been, in plain comparison, very dull.But maybe it's for the best. God knows there are horrible things out there.Or; Martin wishes for something he can't fathom and gets a lot more than he expected.Or; A Howl's Moving Castle AU/Fusion
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Everyone, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 211
Kudos: 367





	1. in which Martin is a reliable employee

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, allô,
> 
> So this idea has been running me over like a truck for a while now, and I figured, might as well use the quarantine to do something constructive with one of my old high school obsessions. And since I'm def not writing a PotO au... (well.... maybe the 1990 version... no, no I shaN'T. It wouldn't wORK!!!)
> 
> This has not been Beta read and English is not my first language. I will take (and need) writing advice as long as it's not the sole reason you're commenting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter:
> 
> \- Lots of exposition  
> \- Lonely-aligned typical depression and isolation  
> \- Low self-esteem  
> \- Ngl this chapter is kinda sad but so is the first chapter of the book in my opinion so y'all can wait for the next one if you don't wanna feel bummed out, that's totally fair.  
> \- Bad poetry, I don't know what a stanza is and at this point I refuse to learn
> 
> Enjoy

In the land of Ingary, where horrible things such as sentient books, people inexplicably falling from clear blue skies, and magical doors leading to places unknown were all fairly frequent occurrences, the life Martin has led thus far had been, by sheer contrast to such terrible tales, rather dull.

As a single child, Martin knew Adventure was bound to find him one day, if he were to believe the stories from his favourite books. Adventure, or great misfortune, which was significantly less appealing, and a lot more likely in his case. It seemed to go either way for people like him. If his family had been a bit larger, say, if he had been one of three siblings, it would have been a lot easier to determine which fate was expected of Martin. Yet here he was, neither sure if he was truly meant to be the responsible caretaker of his family, as an oldest child would, or if he was destined to seek his fortune as the youngest would… or an orphan. Something which was bound to be fantastical in nature and full of exciting trials. 

A small, bleeding part of him chided that he had been an orphan in anything but name, but Martin quickly banished the thought. That wasn’t really fair to all the sacrifices his mother did for him. She was still his mother.

Considering he had been her only caretaker for many years, Martin had resolutely lowered his expectations and faced the facts. After all, he was already well into his 20s, and wasn’t that already too old to go seek your fortune? Martin couldn't recall any stories of adventurers troubled with sore backs or badly clunking knees or even staggering amounts of financial debts weighing down on their shoulders…

It was all a moot point anyway. It wasn’t like he could up and leave his job one a bright Sunday morning… 

There were days when Martin wondered if he should even believe such apocryphal folktales, some grand fateful designs that ever only happened to others, or if they should matter to him at all… Maybe his books only exacerbated his tendency to daydream when his monotonous routine threatened to wall him alive in its layers of solitude. It could be quite isolating sometimes, and getting lost in thought had been worryingly easy as of late. 

Nevertheless, he had a lot of responsibilities on his shoulders, he frequently reminded himself to be thankful for the hand he had been given. Therefore, he needed to stop his needless woolgathering or any other pondering what-ifs. It felt deeply ungrateful to his employers. He would get through this, and then-.... and then... 

Well, then he would make do. Besides the outside was full of great terrifying unknowns and Martin wouldn’t even stand a chance against the most harmless of them.

<0><0><0>

Martin grew on a small farm in the northern fringes of the Folding Valley. He vaguely remembers his father as a looming figure tending to the livestock on emerald green hills, and not much else about him. He remembers his mother looking at him through the window. 

When the man up and vanished in the fog one day, they sold the farm and moved to Market Chipping.

Martin did everything a good son ought to do. He studied hard despite his failings and stayed out of trouble, even if trouble didn't seem inclined to return the favour. He did everything he thought might help her deal with her loss, but Mrs Blackwood’s bitterness only grew as the years went by. 

But they only had each other. So Martin would try harder. He had to.

When his mother’s health took a turn for the worse, Martin, being the dutiful son he was, did the only reasonable thing. He left the town’s school before graduating and sought work where they wouldn’t mind hiring a 16 years old trying to provide for his ailing mother.

Maybe that was what he was meant to do? His great purpose in life? He wasn’t the smartest or the deftest, in truth he didn’t know what to do with his body most of the time, but he would manage. He knew he was resourceful and he had responsibilities. It wasn’t much, but maybe it would be enough one day.

For a few years, he did manage to find some odd jobs, though even the most respectable ones would only keep him for more than a few months. A nervous part of him always wondered if they could tell something was wrong with him, just like his mother did. He tried not to dwell on that too much since it usually did him no good, but the nagging dread never truly left him. 

It came to a head when his mother's condition deteriorated rapidly and she had to be moved to a proper care home. Thus far, they had managed financially, but the new development brought to light all of his carefully repressed distress. There was no way he could afford her the care she needed. 

So in the turmoil of desperation, Martin had been inexorably falling into, the offer to work as a caretaker for the Mayor’s Library appeared as the answer to all of his anguished prayers.

<0><0><0>

“Well Martin, you could have done a lot worse than a concierge desk job.” He says to himself, inspecting a hardcover for any sign of damage, the familiar scent of lignin blends with the smell of cinnamon from his cup of tea. “In fact, you’ve done a lot worse up until that point. You really should be happy with your life now.”

Martin is a rational person, if perhaps prone to the occasional bits of daydreaming, melancholia, and overindulgence of tea as a distraction from both. He's a reliable employee who lives in the building’s upper-floor apartment, as his contract has imperatively demanded as a requirement for the job. He's housed, fed, and paid to live on the premises, which is more than any previous employers had ever offered him in the past. The only downside being that he has to actually _remain_ there at all time, which is... odd, but Martin assumes it's more as a safety precaution for the Library’s content.

… Although Martin himself isn’t quite sure what would possibly warrant a break-in, if that's what worried the Mayor’s family so much. It all seems so unnecessary in his opinion. Hypothetical thieves could just... walk in and check out the books they wanted under a false name. On opening hours! The Library’s recording system was utter rubbish even before he took the desk, it would be laughingly easy.

Something about the comforts of anonymity, whatever Peter called it.

Nonetheless.

Martin has been quite aware of the crippling isolation he had willingly lodged himself into, and had resolutely ignored it thus far with the same aplomb as one might answer well-meaning questions of the “How are you doing?” variety from his employers - when they bothered to visit anyway, being very busy and all that - So really, he has no reason to complain now, since he willingly agreed to this. Heck, he even picked up repairing some of the damaged books as a hobby in his spare time.

Why _should_ he complain? What kind of person would wish to experience inexplicable horrors just waiting for him outside? At least here he's able to make himself useful and provide comfort for his mother, where his mere presence had never brought her any. He's perfectly safe where he is, and everyone seems to agree it's best he stays put. The outside is full of people who certainly don’t want to run into him again. And it's... uncertain, and full of danger…

Just a few months prior, Martin heard rumors of an entire battalion of cursed animated mannequins wreaking havoc across the land, kidnapping people and turning their victims into more of their own. They’d rampaged for quite a while until, in a single night, they were completely wiped out. The rumors went on suggesting the old king’s personal wizard had descended upon them in a great searing blaze, although Ingary has not seen a king in a considerable amount of time. If that person really did exist, nobody has ever seen neither hide nor hair of them.

Martin also knows that rumours tend to get significantly warped as they go through a long line of mouth to ear. However, even he was not immune to their fantastical nature.

He isn’t hoping to be kidnapped, or anything horrible like that. Or, even worse, be turned into a walking hollowed-out hive of squirmy things like one of his childhood neighbors had been, back before they moved here. Dreadful. But, he couldn’t deny the fascination that came with hearing those grand tales of strangeness.

Ending with such a comfortable job still feels like its own kind of surreal happenstance, even after two years of being employed at the Lukas Library. Although, again if Martin were being honest, it _IS_ a very strange place to work at.

It's generally nearly deserted, for one, save for the occasional scurrying patrons who usually don't even need his help finding what they’re looking for. Some of them completely ignore him, and the others seem to positively run away at the first hint of direct interaction with him.

Or maybe that’s just a typical “academic types” behaviour…

Or perhaps just how magical-users, witches, and wizards usually are? Martin could always tell them apart from more... regular patrons. Nothing too special about them, except for that one man who most definitely had too many arms tucked under his coat. They always seem to stare at him for too long, like they knew he’s not supposed to be there.

Sometimes even Martin wonders if he is actually there, with how everyone has clearly been avoiding him since he started working there.

Martin snaps out of his reverie with a pasty taste in his mouth. It's really been getting worse as of late.

Martin remembers when he started working at the Library, he had been promised some sort of guidance for his job, since he didn’t exactly have any experience to speak of. Not quite an apprenticeship, as his employers seemed to think he was capable enough on his own to at least man the concierge desk. So what he got was closer to a tour of the grounds.

Some veteran librarian came from the Capital and showed him the ropes, apparently as a favour to the Mayor. Martin himself had never heard of the man, but then again, he wasn’t exactly privy to the big names within the trade. Or anything that went on in the Capital outside of national news and outrageous gossip.

In any case, the man never returned, so maybe it didn’t matter.

As experienced as the man had been, Martin wouldn’t say his teachings had been… enlightening. The man tried to explain the personal sorting system he used - better than the one in the Lukas Library but much too complex for his level of experience - but he was clearly not a pedagogue in any form or fashion, and he seemed in a hurry to wrap up his day as quickly as possible. He became a lot more enthused when Martin asked his advice on book restoration, and the topic seemed to put the man a bit more at ease. Martin focused on the way he handled the tools at his disposal, moving the books themselves like precious artefacts. He showed Martin how to recognize signs of wear, which Martin still remembered from his own humble attempts at repairing his books when he was much younger. Regardless, Martin still didn’t trust his own clumsy hands not to ruin everything he touched as soon as he tried to do it by himself.

In any case, the man had been eager to return to his own library, has he said, like an inside joke he expected Martin to be familiar with. He was left alone then, with deserted book aisles all around him, a weirdly generous-yet-severe contract hanging over his head, and his nervous sweaty palms with all the work awaiting them, and no idea where to begin.

It's… a pretty quiet job. A little chilly, sometimes.

The Library is… _Quiet_ , most of the time, which was an understatement. Isn’t that usually the most prominent trait of a library? Quietness? Its rare few visitors came by like ghosts, in and out, never staying too long, maybe for fear of being crushed by the overwhelming silence permeating the place. Or his nearly unbearable attempts at starting a conversation with them.

He can put on his brave face, determined to remind himself that this is the best job he has ever had, that he needs to keep trying if only so no-one could complain he was neglecting his custodian's duties.

On most days, he tries to lose himself in his work as best he can. It didn’t matter if nobody wanted to talk to him. That’s not what libraries were for anyway. One of his old friends, Sasha, used to come to see him when he first started, but he hadn’t seen her in… over a year, maybe? He knows she sent him a letter, which he still hadn't brought himself to open, and then somewhat lost inexplicably. He hadn't spoken to her since.

To be fair, he hadn’t tried to reach out to her either, so he couldn't exactly blame her for cutting contact. He wouldn't know what to say to his oldest, maybe only friend, and the fact that she sent him a letter instead of confronting him directly felt… It was quite telling. Either way, Martin could take the hint.

To placate his rampant loneliness, Martin even tried offering tea to the rare patrons who actually looked at him. One or two took him up on his offer, although, most of them seemed to pretend he hadn’t even asked, or eyed the cup suspiciously like it was going to start crawling up his arm.

When the silence gets too much, even for him, Martin likes to open the window by the front desk. He particularly likes to do so in the morning, when gossip and needles gather by the square and share the latest outrageous tales and exciting news of the day.

A few months ago, around the time the aforementioned army of mannequins had been dealt with, there had been a plethora of rumours regarding the reemergence of the so-called Watcher of the Waste. A fearsome magic-user who had been terrorizing the Land for well over two centuries, with very little opposition. They apparently took great vicious joy in cursing those who had the misfortune of crossing paths with them. It recently came to a point where the Capital itself had to send one of its people to deal with them, probably someone who could fight against their magic. It might have been all for nought, considering they conveniently did not follow up on the news at all, so the general consensus had been that this person was most certainly dead or had embarrassed the Council so monumentally that the whole thing had been swept under the metaphorical rug before anyone could catch wind of it.

The Watcher still fuels the gossip mill, though the many stories of their misdeeds never seem to agree on what they looked like.

More exciting news soon followed after, briefly eclipsing the return of the Watcher.

Martin has only ever seen it from his bedroom’s window. Strange outlines of dark towers and mangled pipes, attached to an odd rustling mass of misshapen metal. A castle, some had called it, appeared on the horizon. Martin could be lenient on a lot of things, but he still wasn’t sure if an amalgam of wobbly shapes miraculously sticking together could be considered as a castle…

… But, even he could admit, it looked rather unique.

What's peculiar about it is that it didn’t stay in one place, oh no. One morning, Martin could see it from his quarters’ window, and the next day it would be gone, roving toward the fields with billowing plumes of black smoke in tow. One time, it came so close to the limits of Market Chipping that its presence sparked a panicked frenzy among its populace, as they feared this nefarious construction would come to crush them under its cruel heel, like a child stomping on an anthill. A valid and understandable concern, if only for the many dreadful creatures spawning in Ingary with the singular purpose of terrorizing the mundane folks. He heard that even the _Mayor_ himself had _almost_ done his job and considered begging the Capital for some assistance. Of course, in the end, it never came to that.

The Castle continues to roam, up and down and around the Folding Valley, completely unbothered. Although Martin got the impression it was now politely avoiding the edges of town, but he couldn’t keep a full view of its movement either, so maybe people were just getting used to its proximity.

The news spread that the misshapen structure did, in fact, belong to a wizard known as the Archivist, which wasn’t much comforting either, according to some. Not much information was known about him. An old academic who lost himself to his craft, and the mystery around him has only made the rumours more bewildering. Some folks enjoyed divulging the gruesome tales of how the man amused himself with stealing young hearts, as he apparently had a collection of them in his haunted castle of screams (direct quote here, Martin still thinks it sounds pretty funny). Something about stealing what he lacked most, or so they said.

Well maybe not hearts, one gossiper had admitted, but definitely taking something.

Martin paid much more attention to those who shared their encounter in whispers, with the heavy gravitas of adamant truth in their voice. He had to nearly crane his neck out the window more than once just to hear the entirety of their stories.

Most had met something - More _someone_ than something, which Martin thought was rather good news - who left them with countless questions and a lingering sense of... dread they didn’t quite know what to make of.

Those tales would describe a stern man, with a piercing gaze that saw so much it would surely make them sick if they tried to hold it for too long. He would ask them questions they couldn’t help but answer, before eventually breaking off the strange spell he had over them. Leaving them unharmed, and awfully drained. He would politely thank them for their time and leave them where they stood, dumbfounded and, frankly, terrified.

One man even added, to Martin’s delighted imagination, that the magic-user walked away mumbling to himself, so deep in thought, he nearly walked into someone coming from the other direction.

It seemed like those stories were rather few among the gossipers, but the effect was all the same. Travelling in pairs was already common practice in such troubled times, now most everyone wouldn’t risk a stroll outside without an elbow partner.

“Personally,” Martin says to a row of geopolitical books. The genre took an entire aisle to itself and each individual edition tended to contradict one another at length. Their mutual discrepancies could be quite puzzling when he thought about them for too long. “I don’t think travelling in groups is going to stop anyone from having a polite conversation with you, especially with May Day coming up.”

Alright, maybe that's a bit inconsiderate of him. Just because Martin secretly craves any amount of human interaction, going so far as to routinely spy on random conversations just to get a modicum of it, doesn’t mean most people would appreciate the intrusive nature of being accosted by a dark, mysterious stranger who truly listened to what they had to say until nothing else was left to be said…

“I wonder what would happen if two magic-users tried to team up.” He remarks suddenly at a romance anthology, dusting the shelves. “Like… The Watcher and the Archivist being partners or… something. That would probably be the end of the world.”

He tries to laugh off the idea, ignoring how much he dislikes the way his nervous laugh bounces back at him over the pale barren walls of the Library. Somehow, that possibility doesn’t sit well with him.

… So perhaps a small, private part of him wouldn’t be opposed to the idea of being whisked away by a charismatic and charming figure… It was… intriguing. Not that any of the rumours _said_ he ever did such a thing! He seemed like a polite fellow, if deeply unsettling to speak to, which only fueled Martin’s imagination even more-

He pauses and cringes… Yeah, yikes. Martin is going to put that thought in a locked box and push it far away, with a ten-foot pole. Serves him right for reading too many sappy romances. There is no way this kind of encounter would end well for him. Right. That’s exactly how people get themselves killed. Misguided feelings and faulty ideations. Curiosity killed the cat and all of that.

The Watcher, as of late, had also been supposedly sighted in the area. He wondered a little mournfully if the two were actually in cahoots after all.

<0><0><0>

Wrapping up his daily tasks with the firm determination to keep his restless imagination in check, Martin grabs a book from the box labelled “repairs”, makes sure the door to the Library is locked, and takes the staircase leading up to his own quarters.

It isn’t luxurious by any means, but it's bigger than the apartment he and his mother had been able to afford back when they lived together. Martin has managed to turn the minimal furnishing included with the room into something… well, it looks homely, if perhaps a little lonely at first glance, like a familiar bruise you press into that keeps you up at night.

One time, Martin found a basket full of warm earthy strands of yarn, just left there by the staircase to his quarters. He hadn’t seen anyone come in with one, and despite waiting nearly a month, nobody ever came to reclaim it. Martin eventually caved in and used it for decoration, getting surprisingly a lot done for what amount of strings he had on hand. It was an odd coincidence he had read a book on that topic just a few months prior. Whatever kept isolation at bay…

Ah, right. Hobbies.

Martin goes to his desk and sits down with a weary sigh. The sad thing is placed almost delicately on the table before him.

“It seems like you could use a caring hand.”

The book, of course, says nothing, but Martin likes to think it turns its attention on him, sharp and expectant. It feels good to talk to… something.

He arranges his tools around himself meticulously.

“I know, you’ve been through a lot. Don't you worry, you’ll be patched up in no time.”

It's an indulgence, nothing more. If anyone ever heard Martin speak to inanimate objects the way he has continuously done so for the… well, past two years. It’s been two years of mostly talking to himself. How mortifying.

Sometimes, he can almost imagine the books humming in his hands, when he goes to move them or place them at their rightful spot on the shelves. Or when he works carefully around the scratches and evens out the odd bends left by careless readers with a smoothing hand.

Carefully picking up one of his tools, Martin begins to work on the mishandled book.

Soon, he thinks, there will be a lot of activity in Market Chipping. May Day was upon them, a day for festivities and merrymaking, and this time… This year Martin wouldn’t hole himself up in his room and avoid the crowd. Nobody ever came on festival days anyway, they wouldn’t fault him for leaving the grounds for less than a day.

“Maybe I could catch up with Sasha?” He asks the grey little book before him as he leafs through the pages. Martin is not familiar with its dialect. “Maybe she’s still working at the bakery…” he trails off. “I could just go out there and walk around…”

Even speaking those words out loud doesn’t make him feel better.

There are moments like this where his own uncertainties seem to attract more of their kind, leaving Martin with a dejected heart and an unreadable little grey little book that hums warmly under his desk lamp.

“I think you’re very nice,” he says wistfully. “I’m sorry I don’t speak your language. The people who can are very lucky.” He apologizes, turning the pages at random. He spots a tear near the end and carefully picks the fine paper he normally used to fix them. “You look like you belong in the psychology section, I’ll have to check. You probably make people think about where they are in their life and who they want to be, and what they want to be. Like a mirror to the soul, reading the readers back.”

_Who are you, Martin Blackwood?_

Martin thinks he must be exhausted, a surprisingly wet laugh passes his lips as he seals the paper tear. “I’m a nobody lying to himself. I’m dull and forgettable. I’m no-one that matters and I matter to no-one.”

The humming stops and the room goes dreadfully, mercifully quiet. Quiet like the Library below and quiet like the blissful silence he can’t help but wrap around himself when he gives up and feels like wallowing in his own self-pity. It always feels worse at this time of the night.

Before any more foreign thought comes to him, Martin decides that this is definitely his cue to turn off the lamp and call it a night. Twisting the knife off the clock wouldn’t get him anywhere tonight. He thinks about writing down a few lines, as he usually does before bed. So with his remaining strength, he picks up the pen on his nightstand and opens the last page of his journal, gracelessly bleeding his feelings into words.

_My heart’s a heavy burden_  
_A 10 000 days journey_  
_Hollowed out and Forsaken_

Martin sighs loudly, reading over those lines with heavy eyes. He did like that number, oddly enough. It has a nice ring…

He turns the page and tries again, veering his thoughts back to something less… depressing.

_If I fell and stumbled in your eyes_  
_And found a place there for me to thrive_  
_I shall slowly take to shed my lies_  
_To grow in the glow of your reprieve_

Martin stares at the words critically, unsure if his arms have fallen asleep or if the tingling is a clear sign of much-needed sleep. He sighs in frustration and finally turns off the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading <3 you can hit me up on Tumblr at [Midnightsingvogel](https://midnightsingvogel.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Enjoy the Ride.


	2. in which Martin runs into someone... well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _To be gorgeous, you must first be seen,_   
>  _but to be seen allows you to be hunted._
> 
> \-- Ocean Vuong, _On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it seems like I have no patience. So I'm adding this chapter earlier cause I just got through a couple of exams and I think we could all get a little distraction while waiting for ep. 162.
> 
> So it turns out, I'm not a long-chapter-kinda writer so you're going to get this fic into strategic bits, like a proper newspaper soap opera. With wacky magic and horrible encounters. Lucky you. 
> 
> Warning for this Chapter:  
>    
> \- Lonely-typical depression/isolation  
> \- Reminiscence of High school bullying  
> \- Ableism (Learning/Reading abilities)
> 
> Pretty sure that's the worst of it but please lemme know if I've forgotten something.
> 
> ~Enjoy~

It’s... a little hard to keep track of time. 

Every day passes by the same as all the ones before, and only little odd events can set them apart.

Before he knew it, May Day was in full swing in Market Chipping. That morning, Martin wakes to cheerful sounds of laughter and singing coming down from the streets below. From his bedroom window, he sees people in bright outfits and stilts milling about, waving silky ribbons and inconveniencing the food merchants. The square is positively teeming with activity and the sight alone leaves him strangely overwhelmed. 

“Come now, Martin,” he says, voice a tad wobbly. “Today is the day. No one ever comes on holidays.”

Naturally, Martin stands at the window for quite some time, observing a crowd of people he barely recognizes. May Day in Market Chipping did attract a lot of attention from people all over the country. He catches a glimpse of one of his previous employers and briefly wonders if they would even remember him after all this time cut off from the world. 

Watching the festivities from afar, even the anxious twists in his stomach can’t suppress his usual pangs of hunger, reminding Martin that he hasn’t eaten yet.

Sensing a reasonable motivation to latch onto, Martin steels himself, puts on his nicest casual clothes, which briefly reminds him he hadn’t worn them in a while, his grey coat since the Library could be quite chilling at times, and finally goes down the stairs with a single goal in mind. 

He only stops as he arrives at the door, his hand half raised to unlock it when he suddenly falters with uncertainty, wondering if he should even bother throwing himself out there, knowing it would only make him feel miserable afterward. After spending so much time by himself, the prospect of facing so many people at once felt overwhelming. The mere sound of one particularly boisterous laugh from the other side made him shudder with apprehension. 

He glares at the doorknob and, tensing with determination, unbolts the lock with as much spite as he could muster. 

“It’s just twenty feet away,” he bargains with himself. Wavering resolve but resolve nonetheless. “You get out there and buy something from one of the street vendors, and then it’s… Then you go from there.”

He tries to avoid the thought of how such a laughably small venture nearly seems unbearable right now. If he could put aside his apprehension and just push through… 

Martin feels his hand shake as it grabs the handle. He shoves down his reluctance and instead focuses on what he has set himself to do. 

“No-one is actually holding you here but yourself, it's just a contract. You’re perfectly capable of walking outside like a normal functioning adult, and if it goes well, you could even swing by the bakery and see if Sasha still works there.”

Yeah, yeah right. 

“You just need to open the door…”

Martin exhales deeply, and as he pulls it inward, he breathes in the warm air rushing over him as he stands in the open doorway. 

He sets one foot across the threshold, 

-only for something to collide into him so hard, so swiftly, the air abruptly leaves his lungs in a pained, high-pitched wheeze. 

Stumbling backward with an armful of frantic limbs, and much grousing in his ears, Martin isn’t distracted enough to miss the very sharp elbows jabbing into his soft guts and one of his feet getting crushed under what he presumes are wooden heels. Their tangled mess of bruised ribs and indignant yelps falls rapidly on the Library’s gray wooden floor, with both parties lashing at more sensitive organs upon impact. 

Martin may have a lot of extra padding on him, but his height and weight had never cushioned any sort of fall in the past, and this one was no different judging by the painful throbbing at the back of his head.

He barely has enough time to register the missing weight that fell on him when he catches the blur of someone scrambling to reach the door, closing it in a hurry. Martin winces as he hears the hinges rattle under the force of the blow.

For a full, bewildered minute, there is nothing but the sounds of hard gasps in the silent Library, like the man has been running for much longer than his body could physically afford. Martin, instinctively, doesn’t dare to make a sound for fear of breaking the stand-still between them. 

The man bears a serious expression that could be described as almost comically composed if he didn't look so visibly distressed. A sheen of sweat breaks on his forehead and Martin thinks he's even too out of breath to acknowledge him. His chest shakes with every gasp, his not-quite spindly physique crouches rather ungracefully as far below the door’s frosted window as possible, his back flat against the wood, both arms braced on each side as if they could somehow hold it in place, or help him blend in if he stopped moving long enough. 

Martin randomly thinks he looks like a startled spider. Or a cat. Probably more like a cat, with a face like that.

As opposed to the solemnity of his face, his eyes were a completely different matter. They blink rapidly as he turns his disheveled head sideways, presumably paying attention to what was said on the other side of the door. 

A few labored breaths later, Martin sees through the humble window by his desk a succession of... shapes passing in front of the building’s frontage, mingling with the merrymakers and visibly looking for something.

Or someone. 

Martin clears his throat, ignoring his heart attempting to climb out of it, “Friends of yours?”

The man, as if only now aware of his presence, startles so violently he nearly loses his precarious balance, throwing a warning glare at him. Wincing nervously, Martin raises both hands in a manner he hopes appears soothing to his agitated guest. 

Intruder? 

Better deal with the semantics once the situation has calmed down. 

Martin’s hand points at the deadbolt just a little over the ornate brass handle, “You can- You can put the deadbolt if you want?”

The man remains silent for a few beats, maybe distracted by something important his pursuers were saying, until he finally speaks in a low, weary voice, each enunciated word slowly dripping with thinly veiled suspicion.

“ _And why should I do that?_ ”

“Well obviously,” he finds himself saying, a sudden wave of goosebumps running through him. Choked words stumble out of his mouth before he can even hope to catch them. “I just think it might make you feel better?” 

The man’s face remains unreadable (or maybe he thinks Martin is a dolt or something?) and Martin’s face turns a bright shade of red. 

“I mean, well, _obviously_ so your ‘friends’ don’t find you here?” He stammers in a high pitched voice.

The man regards him with the same unamused dubiousness. “I fail to see how an average door could possibly hold back a swarm of intruders.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” To his horror, Martin makes a disbelieving laugh as he starts counting on his fingers. “For one, most people can’t pass through doors, second, you don’t have to let people in if they don’t have a warrant, not- not that I ever had to worry about that here! Ehrm. Also if it’s clearly past opening hours, and… I just think it’s considered quite _rude_?”

The man finally, finally blinks. Martin isn’t even sure he’d seen him blink in the last minutes. “Rude,” he repeats flatly, the same way you’d call someone daft. At least the absurdity of his logic seems to have snapped him out of his previous panic. 

Thankfully, the frazzled man didn’t have any additional comments on Martin's polite suggestion. 

“I’ll just… I’ll just lock the door then, alright.” The man shifts nervously. “Or you could- you could do it, if you want. I’m not going to let them catch you here, please don’t worry.”

The man speaks impatiently, still clearly unnerved by his earlier chase, “It isn’t my place to criticize your hospitality but I should inform you that allowing strange, bedraggled people into your- your domain is generally a sure way to get yourself killed or much worse. Not without an ulterior motive. So do forgive me if you don't seem particularly trustworthy to me right now.” 

“Yes well, I was raised with _some_ manners!” Martin hears himself tensing. “I know the rules of hospitality and I should inform _you_ that slamming into perfect strangers, who happen to be more than willing to lend you a hand, only to call them dishonest to their face, is not particularly appreciated by most people. Escaping from _whoever-they-are_ doesn’t give you grounds to behave like an-'' Martin's lips shut with a snap and holds his breath, surprised at his flare of temper. The man has the decency of looking sheepish. Or as sheepish as his defensive countenance would allow. 

Martin clears his throat. “I’m sorry, you’re under a lot of stress. Oh and… It’s not… Technically my.. My _domain_.” Martin laughs awkwardly. “I’m just the caretaker?”

The man doesn't look convinced, or perhaps refuses to talk. Martin tries again.

“You’re in a public library?”

The man suddenly huffs irritatingly, “I don’t know what kind of fool you think I am.”

“What?”

He motions sharply at the empty, lonely book aisles with a discolored- burnt hand. The slightly off-white, slowly flaking columns towering over them like uncaring vigils… “You want me to believe that this place is open to the public?” he raises, prickly and unnerved.

“Well not _today_ , it isn’t. I was, well, I was going to leave it closed for today and…” He gestures uselessly at the windows, where he could still see a flurry of colours outside. “Get out there, you know…” Martin attempts to put some conviction into it, but it rings wrong even to his ears. He swallows down the annoyance the sight inspires in him. “No-one ever comes on holidays, so…” 

“I can’t imagine why.”

“Wh-...” Martin frowns. A quick glance at the window reminds him that he should mind his tone. “What do you have against my workplace?” He whispers emphatically, trying to ignore the jabs at his pride. It’s odd, certainly, but it was still his work.

The man chooses to ignore his indignation and bore his eyes into him. And for a moment, the sheer depth of them takes Martin’s breath away again. For a second, he catches a flash of brightness as the man opens his mouth. “ _Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?_ ” 

Once more, Martin feels this… feeling, washing over him, and raising the hair at the back of his neck. 

“You look scared and… Alone. No-one deserves to feel like that,” he says, surprised by how earnest his voice sounds. “I know I can help you, so please let me? I think we could both use a friend.”

Martin’s eyes grow wide as the words fall between them. He covers his traitorous mouth with both hands and looks back, gasping loudly in shock and embarrassment at his unexpected visitor. 

Martin isn’t a fool, he can put two and two together, especially with everything he’s heard of the... The man? Wizard? Is he even human?... Everything he’s heard in the last few months… 

As the thought dawns on him with staggering clarity, Martin is surprised to see the other man suddenly turn his gaze away and exhale loudly. Martin stays stunned into silence until the other speaks, sounding awfully defeated.

“I should…” A greasy laugh comes from outside, and the stranger’s entire body freezes. He shuts his eyes tightly, his face twisting in a wince. 

A few minutes passes by until Martin feels his nerves fraying dangerously. The man hasn’t moved, keenly listening to the other side. So, with an exasperated sigh, Martin finally stands.

Oh god his back, he shouldn’t have stayed in that position so long…

“What are you doing?” the other man demands in a panicked rush.

Martin does another calming motion, albeit quietly cursing his desk job. “Listen… You can stay here, this is the only way in or out of the building. Aside from my bedroom window but it’s- I can’t imagine it would be very discreet with how many people are outside today, not to mention the bent of the roof is rather steep…”

The man blinks, a small hitch of his jaw tells Martin he’s still waiting for him to get to the point.

“Anyway so, I’m going to go upstairs and make a pot of tea. If- If you would like one I could bring you a cup? Only if you want!” Oh god, what was he saying? “Most people don’t take me up on it so I understand if you’re just waiting for me to leave but if you’re not then I really don’t mind sharing, I have a decent blend of Prince of Ingary upstairs-”

“It’s,” The dark-eyed man thankfully interrupts his mortifying rambling. “I… Don’t wish to impose,” the man says carefully, diplomatically. The irony could almost make him burst into laughter. 

“Oh no, it really is no trouble.” Martin shakes his hands, taking a step backward toward the stairs. 

Before he gets any further, a knock comes at the door. 

Martin and the man share a look of silent astonishment when three more knocks follow. Martin hears the stern man curse harshly, his eyes searching frantically for a missing way out, Martin knows he won’t find one.

Without hesitation, Martin takes off his coat.

“I need you to trust me, alright?” Martin tells, brandishing his coat at the man. “They won’t come in, but you need to hide.”

The man looks at the coat, possibly insulted or confused. “And you expect me to, what, turn into a coat stand?”

Martin raises both brows at him. “Well, can you?”

This time, the banging comes with a voice. “This is officer Lloyd, open or we’ll-” the threat is cut short by another voice speaking in a hushed tone.

The mysterious magic-user bristles and snatches the coat. “Bloody hell, fine!” he hisses.

“Okay, get behind my desk, use the coat to blend in.” Thankfully, the man does just so without further complaints, although Martin thinks he can hear him muttering about coat stands. 

Martin takes three deep breaths in quick succession and opens the door.

A red-faced uniform-clad officer stands with his hand raised, and Martin sees he had definitively been about to test the handle.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Martin fakes an apologetic smile, a hand pressed over his heart as if attempting to catch his breath. “I was in the backroom, I thought- thought I could do a bit of sorting on my own since we’re closed today.” Martin laughs awkwardly and the officer blinks at the polite rambling pouring out from him. 

Martin addresses the two other heads standing just a little behind. “Can I do anything for you today, officers? I’m afraid you’ll have to come back tomorrow if you’re looking for a particular title,” He states gently, leaning closer to the shorter man at the front, whose mustache starts to shake uncertainly. 

“Sorry to bother you, sir,” he almost mumbles, sounding a lot less bold than earlier. Or maybe it was another one? “But we’ve been told a person of interest has been sighted entering this building, and we’d like to ask if you’ve noticed anything suspicious in the last couple of minutes.”

Martin’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline, the picture of innocent surprise. “A person of interest? That’s dreadful! Although I can assure you they’re not here.”

“And how can you attest of that?” The taller man he could see over his right shoulder points out, “You said you hadn’t heard us knock on the door earlier.”

Crap. He had to veer off that topic, Martin scratches his head sheepishly. Half-truths will have to do. “Well, I would have heard it if someone was shuffling in the Mayor’s Library. Trust me, it’s awfully quiet in there, you could hear a pin drop.”

The second officer seems about to ask something again but the first one motions him into silence, “Very well, you wouldn’t mind us taking a look inside then?” The mustached man tests. His eyes squint slightly. It looked like he had some trouble looking directly at Martin. 

Martin continues to fake a look of gentle surprise, ignoring a fluttering coil of panic. He knows a trick question when he hears one. “Of course not! If you think it’s necessary…” Martin presses himself on one side of the door, leaving just enough space for them to take a good look at the cold interior of the building. 

Martin can imagine what they’re seeing. The interior was almost visibly cooler than the bright spring day past the threshold, the air stale and dry. Brittle, even. 

Whether he imagines it or not, Martin almost feels a physical wave of pressure washing over him, and passing through the three men standing at the Library’s door. 

The one at the front frowns deeply, his face is still red but he seems reluctant to voice his discomfort. Martin waits patiently, wishing for them to go away with all his might. 

“But, truly, sirs, **it isn’t necessary**.”

To his surprise, the front officer finally nods, humbled into silence. Martin can barely contain his relief for a second before the third officer, who had been quiet through the entire exchange, suddenly pipes up.

“Hey, I remember you!”

Ah, great, just great.

“Yeah!” He grins with unkind glee, Martin shuts his eyes. 

He knew that guy. 

“You were that kid in my grade who dropped out of school! Whatever happened to your hair? Didn’t you use to be ginger or something? You look like that time someone put a mop on your head!”

Martin opens his mouth to reply, and closes it. Finding himself caught between his needs to escape and the thought of the man hiding behind him. 

“How did you even end up working for the Mayor anyway? Isn’t that what academics get to do?”

“Lloyd, I swear to god, you’re going to shut it!” The second man admonishes nervously. He looks just as disturbed as the first one. “You really wanna start questioning the Mayor’s choices?”

“What? I’m just saying it doesn’t make sense! The guy couldn’t even read well enough in high school, it’s a wonder he got that far in the first place!” The oblivious man continues to prattle on, looking over at Martin with a cruel glint in his eyes. “I even heard our teacher say he had the lowest score in the class. How come someone practically illiterate ends up working at a place, you know, for reading???”

Cruel or not, he seems to make some kind of (unfair) point for both of his colleagues who stare back at Martin questionably. 

Still struggling to get a hold of his wits, Martin smiles thinly at the trio.

"Of course, I remember you well enough. Not even leaving school to provide for my family could have made me forget about you.” 

The man laughs delightfully, the others look, frankly, annoyed. “Yeah I guess I was a pretty big deal back then, wasn’t I?”

Martin moves away from the doorway, using the opportunity to block their view of the inside. He ignores the hints of worried looks from the two first officers and pretends to think fondly of the memories. “I suppose you were.” He nods at the gold plate on his chest. “That star looks _a lot_ better on you than your old teacher assistant badge, doesn’t it? It’s good to see some things don’t change, even after all those years.” 

The oblivious man is about to boast again, to his colleagues' dismay, but this time Martin feels an almost visceral need to send them away as fast as possible, he’s had enough of this. “I wonder what else hasn't changed, you know? Are you still taking people’s lunch money? Do you still throw the first punch and then claim it was the other party who started it?” 

“Wh- What?” The man nearly shouts, now having both of his colleagues questioning gaze on him. Martin thinks one of them seems professionally delighted. “That’s not true! I’ve never done any of that!”

The two others actually share a look. There’s a very lengthy exchange on the matter while the third one continues to make irritating noises.

Martin doesn’t lean, but his voice lowers as he smiles thinly, polite as ever. He couldn’t seem to care for his own well-being at the moment, continuing to draw from years of suppressed anger. “Do you purposely _harass_ ordinary public servants just minding their own business for your own amusement, when you should be doing your _job_ and go back to look for that presumed person of interest? I’m sure the Mayor would just love to hear where the public funds are going.”

“Alright, fine, that’s enough!” The one at the front finally interrupts, looking at Martin unhappily. “I understand your feelings, sir, but for your advice, I don’t recommend you speak to an officer of the law in this manner, even if you’re under the employment of the current administration.” The man warns evenly.

Martin nods with a contrite smile, more than willing to ignore his old classmate visibly fuming in the back. “Of course, I do have a lot of work waiting for me. You may come by tomorrow on our opening hours if you’re searching for a specific tome, I’ll be happy to assist.”

The officer, again, bears the same look of discomfort he had earlier when faced with the thought of going inside the Library. To his credit, he braces himself and nods firmly. “I’ll keep that in mind, sorry for the inconvenience, Merry May Day.”

“And to you as well, hope to see you soon!” He lies, bearing his usual customer-service smile. While his two colleagues quickly shuffle through the crowd as fast as possible, the third man takes a moment to throw daggers at Martin. He thinks he catches a glint of gold in his eyes.

Martin, unbelievably emboldened, offers him a one-finger salute with a polite smile, closes the door, and for good measure, puts the lock on with the same satisfaction as putting the last period at the end of a strongly-worded letter.

A sudden, painful gasp nearly makes him jump out of his skin, still on the high of his own bravado. Martin’s eyes zap to his desk where he finds the strange visitor, wrapped in his coat and shivering violently.

Martin kneels down, trying to catch his eyes. He doesn’t quite dare to touch him. “Are you alright? Oh god, were you hurt this entire time? I’m so sorry, I should have noticed-”

“No! No, I’m not hurt.” He cuts him off impatiently, effectively holding Martin’s panic at bay. After another wave of shivers, he actually huffs something that sounds awfully like a self-deprecating laugh. “Not beyond the bruises from earlier.” 

Martin can feel his face warm up. “I hope I haven’t broken anything? Wh- I mean, when we fell…”

The man shakes his head again. “Don’t worry, I’m a lot sturdier than I look.”

Martin can’t help but have some reasonable doubts about that. “Ah, right… Well, is there anything I could do to help? I-... well, I was going to make some tea?”

The man finally looks at him. Looks long enough for Martin to feel nervous under the dark, unfathomable gaze. There’s a minute furrow over his brow, and the man exhales with difficulty. It dawns on Martin how pale and, surprisingly, how unfocused his eyes are growing.

“I’ll take you up on your offer.”

Martin is at a loss for words for a few seconds. “Oh? Oh that’s, wonderful I’ll just-”

“But I need to test a theory first, and I’ll need you to do something for me,” he says in an unwavering voice, his gazing intently at Martin. He squares his jaw and adds with a small head tilt. “If you’ll allow it.”

Martin is taken aback by the hard look of determination on the man’s face. It makes Martin think the man must have survived anything, and is very keen to continue doing so, despite how weary he seems. He could still see the nameless pain washing over him, despite his efforts to repress his shudders. Martin blinks away his confusion and nods.

“Of course,” Martin says softly, it falls from his lips so easily, he almost wonders if he’s the one speaking. “Just tell me what I can do.”

The man, chasing away more sickly tremors, takes a deep breath and, almost as a second thought, shuts his eyes tightly.

“Unlock the door.”

Martin forgets to breathe. He may have forgotten what breathing is altogether. 

When he fails to move or answer the demand, the disheveled man finally opens his eyes, which are full of storms and pointed accusations. 

“Well?”

Whatever sheer look of astonishment he sees on Martin's face somehow mollifies his temper as quickly as the previous shift to anger. He sighs and looks away, and Martin has no idea what to make of his inexplicable frustration. 

Well, there is something he can do.

“Alright.”

The man turns wide eyes at him, brows furrow gravely and lips pressed.

Martin thinks he looks paler than he did a minute ago. 

Martin raises both hands and laughs nervously as he starts to stand. “That sounds easy enough, it’s really no problem. Just give me a moment.”

Martin tries to ignore the feeling of the man’s eyes burning into him as he stands and walks the distance between the desk and the lock. It… 

If he were honest, it didn’t quite feel right, but he supposes he should ignore the strange tugs of his own unexplainable paranoia. He presses his left hand flat on the door, so as to make it easier on the hinges, and very normally makes himself unbolt the door with his right hand. 

Martin thinks the snap of the bolt may sound a bit heavier than it normally did.

At that exact moment, the man gasps horribly again, this time loud and bone-deep relief, as if somehow released from an invisible grip, and Martin hears a sound that may have been the man collapsing onto the floor. 

And, well, there’s a man unconscious on the floor now.

Naturally, Martin panics and rushes over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yknow, I use an awful lot cliffhangers for someone who doesn't like cliffhangers. Uh. 
> 
> Either way, You can talk to me on Tumblr at [Midnightsingvogel](https://midnightsingvogel.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you for reading, I love you all.


	3. in which a lot of brows and Questions are raised

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aight so I originally wanted to finish this with the cliffhanger I was originally planning to use but y'know what, this is already long enough and I can finally focus on my Translations. I forgot it was Easter today so I'm hoping I can get a couple of chocolate boxes for half the price tomorrow. Anyway.
> 
>   
> Warning for this chapter:
> 
> \- Eye-typical Scopophobia  
> \- Awkwardness.  
> \- Lonely-aligned typical depression and isolation  
> \- A lot of exposition and that needs more development (eventually)

Martin wonders, maybe- maybe he’s just having a very bad dream. Sure he doesn’t dream a lot these days, but if he’s having one, this is definitely the point where he’d like to wake up, please. No more of this nerve-wracking continuum of successive crises to deal with.

The man’s arms have collapsed under him and he remains half sprawled as Martin reaches him. He hesitates, both hands hovering and unsure how to go about this.

He’d put on Martin’s coat at some point. Through the bulk of thick material, Martin can see his thin frame. His clothes, understandably, were crumpled and slightly damp from his earlier run, but otherwise appeared to be of good quality. Haywire strands of black and silver hair tousle any which way around his head, like an obscuring halo, and for all appearances, it looked… strangely silk-like? And glossy?

Well, pretty- Which is incredibly unhelpful right now-

In any case, he seems very passed out. Steadying his resolve, Martin finally dares to press gentle hands over his back, turning him over.

“Great job, Martin. You make small talk with one person in god knows how long and they faint with no explana- AH!”

Though unresponsive, the man’s eyes are wide open, unseeing. His entire face seems lost in a vacant expression, which on him still looked like he was focusing on something in the distance.

Very carefully, Martin touches the man’s arm.

“Are you with me?” His voice, so soft, so small, so quietly. It still carries an unmistakable tint of guilt. He has no experience for that sort of predicament, and perhaps the man had lied and kept his injuries undisclosed out of distrust.

Martin swallows and sighs, wishing for this nightmare to end. He resists the urge to shake awake the inert body on the floor.

“Please come back.” He hears himself plead, pressing his hand over the coat-covered arm. If all of this wasn’t real, there’s no use holding onto his pride. “You can follow my voice, I’ll wait for as long as you need, just, please come back…” he rambles senselessly. He’s well aware he’s not making any sense.

_Come Back. Even as a shadow, even as a dream._

Oh, now was not the time for grieving quotes!

“Please don’t leave me alone here…”

After what must have been a few minutes of sightless staring at the ceiling, the man’s eyelids finally flutter and, slowly… closes.

He is not breathing, and neither is Martin.

Then a bright, unnaturally green line carves itself on the man’s forehead. Widens and widens…

Until, to Martin’s fascinated horror, a large eye opens.

The eye shines, luminescent gaudy green, but not quite like a gaslamp should. It seems to waver in density, like an unsteady mirage, and it makes an unpleasant buzz with every single slow drag of its solitary gaze around the room. The lids, Martin thinks, are surprisingly expressive, squinting and widening into too many shapes for him to categorize them all. But the eye never fully closes.

Finally, it stops roaming, to Martin’s frozen trepidation,

-and locks itself unto him, nailing him to the spot.

Everything feels… very, very wrong. His vision narrows into a tunnel, the other end staring back at him.

It does… Martin couldn’t be sure what it does. It grows wide and then squints in such a way that makes him feel like it’s blatantly belittling his entire life, as irrational that may be.

Suddenly, it starts to trash chaotically around its orbit. The strange hissing sound grows increasingly louder until, with a pop, it goes away completely.

And so does the eyes.

All is quiet, not even the familiar creaking and humming of the Library fills the space around them.

And then the man breathes again, normally, like he had never stopped, and Martin’s entire body sags with relief.

The man groans and shifts, kicking Martin out of his stupor.

“Oh… Okayyy…” Martin fidgets closer, noticing his (perfectly normal) eyes fluttering open with difficulty. “Erm. Alright, well we can’t have you stay on the floor now, can we?”

“Oh god,” the man gasps as if his lungs were still recovering from his earlier run. “What time is- Oh-” His eyes snap open and lock on him. He looks… displeased and apprehensive. “Hmm.”

Martin’s heart is all over the place today, or maybe it’s playing a rock-the-boat game and hadn’t let him know it was in the cards today.

He offers a shaky smile to his slightly livid visitor and a (hopefully) gentle squeeze to his arm. “Sorry. Let’s get you in a chair?”

A few minutes of awkward shuffling and the man has finally been moved off the floor and down in a chair, more or less clutching the sides of Martin’s coat closer around himself. It’s much too big for him, and the colour doesn’t suit him at all, but the sight still tugs at something in Martin’s chest, even if his guest looks as disgruntled as a drenched cat.

“How did you know?”

“Sorry??”

“How did you know they wouldn’t come in?” He asks warily, although a lot more subdued than earlier.

“Oh!” Martin huffs nervously. How _did_ he know? “I guess I just took a chance?” The man’s thin lips disappear in an unimpressed moue. “And well there’s also that- If I’m being honest, I knew they don’t like this place any more than you did, or do. And, well I guess I can’t really blame them. It’s not- not exactly a _haven_ of warmth, is it? Try as I might…”

“Try as you might?” The man gives him an odd look, apparently already back to his earlier brusqueness. “What’s the point of making this place welcoming? It doesn’t seem like it wants to be found.” 

“I-...” What does that even mean? The Library was located right by the main square. “It’s just what I do! What else am I supposed to do with my time, let this place fall apart? Walk aimlessly through the aisles and let the walls crumble around me just because no-one wants to be there? I’d rather stay busy and do something useful for my community, thank you very much.”

The man remains silent, mulling over something he was apparently not willing to share, or perhaps taken aback by his dedication.

Martin finally sighs heavily, his interlocutor raises an eyebrow, “I know, sometimes it’s… a difficult place to care for. And I don’t think it wants to be, if that makes sense… Even I don’t really feel welcome here sometimes…” He concedes, mortified that he would confide so much to someone he barely knows… And perhaps he’s unsure how he feels over finally putting his thoughts into words.

“ _Then why are you-_ ” The man catches himself, his mouth twisting in frustration. Martin finds himself holding his breath while waiting for his guest to choose his words. “Sorry…”

“Oh, no! No, it’s alright-”

“No, it’s not,” He states harshly with frustration. The stranger shakes his head and doesn’t elaborate. “But…” he lowers his eyes. “I may be partial to Earl Grey, if you have any on hand.”

Oh. OH!

Martin, against all reason, feels a brilliant thing coil itself in his stomach.

“Of course! Yes, I do. I’ll be right back,” he stammers and attempts to climb the stairs at a normal, mindful, not-panicking pace.

He is not running away.

Perhaps it’s not very logical or thoughtful to leave someone… unpredictable? Terrifying? Intriguing???... by themselves on the main floor. It was a rather foolish thing to do, in all honesty, but Martin was at the point where any sort of calming ritual, like making tea, might actually give him enough time to figure out the plot of this very, very bizarre dream.

There was the possibility that his… guest might be gone by the time he returns. Martin can’t decide if that would be for the best or if he actually hopes the man would still be there. God, even sharing a cup of tea with him…

He’s halfway through the brewing process when two polite knocks on the doorframe nearly make him drop his kettle.

“Oh wow, I’m so sorry about that!” He gasps through a nervous smile. “I’m not used to having…” He throws self-conscious glances around his apartment. Nothing too bad, but he still feels himself fluster. “... company?”

The man seems a little startled as well by his reaction, still clutching the flaps of the coat tightly around himself, and grimacing at the scene. “It’s quite alright. I’m sorry for intruding.”

Martin, despite himself, grins embarrassingly. He has such a nice voice… “No please, I shouldn’t have up and left you downstairs, considering. Please, have a seat? I’m almost done.” He motions to the one-chaired little table. The man no doubt remarks the obvious lack of a second chair but, thankfully, doesn’t comment on it.

While waiting after the kettle earlier, Martin uncovered a nearly unused tray in one of his tiny cupboards, the one he never opens and keeps forgetting about. He makes quick work of assembling a small improvised tea set before facing the man.

To his credit, Martin doesn’t flush as he realizes his guest is eyeing his apartment critically, distrustful and curious in equal parts.

Martin attempts a nervous smile, “Well… Thank you for waiting?” He says, and places the tray on the table.

The man huffs something that could pass as a laugh. Or like he’d been holding his breath the entire time.

“Will you sit as well?” the man asks seriously, but there’s not the strange… buzzing pressure his previous questions had pressed upon him.

“Ah, right. I was going to… stand, I suppose?”

The man points his chin at his workbench’s chair, “Take a seat, it looks like you need it.”

Martin complies, shuffling the bench awkwardly near the table and feeling even more out of place as he sits across his unusual guest. He does so, he tells himself, not because he’s being bossed around his own quarters by a perfect stranger, or because the perfect stranger looks at him expectantly, like it matters, but because… Because… 

That sounds like a reasonable thing to do.

As he makes his own cup, he feels quite aware of the man’s dark, inquisitive eyes on him, registering his every movement, like he could up and vanish if he stopped looking. It seems like a regular thing for him. In fact, right now Martin believes most of his oddities must be eyes-related in some form, so he elects to not make any mention of it, it feels a bit rude to bring it up around a cup of tea.

“I wanted to say earlier…” Martin lifts his head and looks across the table. The man winces and tries again. “If you don’t enjoy working here, why continue to serve this… establishment?” He grimaces, like the word tastes sour on his tongue.

Martin shakes one shoulder, lamely. “You have to hold onto something, right?” His spoon clicks softly on the cheap porcelain. It seems a bit gauche to admit that this is better than no work at all. “Besides, I like… I mean, I know I’m good at this job, and it’s nice to know I’m needed? It's mostly maintenance. And well, at least I don’t hear anything bad from my immediate boss. In fact, I’m pretty sure I get more visits from one of his relatives than him, though I suppose he’s technically my supervisor, in a way…” Martin scratches the back of his neck, he didn't particularly wish to think about Peter today. It tends to be migraine-inducing. “but, to be honest, I don’t think they really care if I do a good job or not. So for a time, I thought I might hear more from them if I improved the place, but...”

Martin, realizing he’s rambling again, turns to look across the table, “I should have probably made you a cup first. Would you like me to make yours?” If he’s going to ramble, he might as well change the subject, or keep his hands busy. “I could make it for you, if you’d like.”

The other man huffs (he seems quite good at that). Maybe he’s aware of Martin’s change of topic, but he presses his lips into a thin, thoughtful line, and nods at the offer. “I did say I would, this seems harmless enough.”

Harmless enough? “Why thank you for your trust. Fortunately for you, or perhaps unfortunately, depending on your expectations, this is merely tea.”

“Oh, you never know. Sometimes tea can be spiders.”

Martin turns a carefully blank stare at him. It can’t be very convincing with how wide his eyes were.

The man winces and hums. “Hm, nevermind,” He says, painfully awkward, but not unkindly. “Although, kids these days can be incredibly creative with their pranks.”

That was… Alright, that made a little more sense, although the logistics of such a thing nearly made his head spin. “That sounds like a waste of perfectly good tea, but I guess it can't be worse than over-steeped Orange pekoe.”

The stranger stays very still, his lips pressed thin on his face. Well, maybe they twitch, just a tiny bit.

Right. Right that… Right…

A few short questions later and Martin politely places his cup on the other side of the tray, unwilling to rattle the man with more unexpected contacts. He briefly thinks about how he should be the one more disturbed by the man instead, but he finds himself watching him slowly unclasp his hands from the flaps of the coat (which he is still wearing!!) and carefully picks up the cup, holding it close to him with both hands, as if attempting to warm them up.

His visitor sighs. “What you said, about your work here.”

Drat. “Yes?”

“You care about doing a good job, then?”

“Of course I care!”

“And what does ‘a good job’ entails to you?”

“Well… I’m a caretaker, more of a concierge really. I just make sure the books are in good condition, the building is in proper order and open to the public.”

“I believe you.”

… Well gee. “... Thank you?”

“I just need to understand why you would unlock the door for me.”

… What??? “Because you asked? And, it’s just a door?”

The man bares intense eyes on him again, Martin tries not to fidget under the unyielding scrutiny.

“It’s not just a door,” he states, low and ominous. “This,” he gestures archly, “is not just a Library, and you, most definitely, are not just a caretaker.”

His visitor is drilling holes into him, no doubt attempting to catch any incriminating reaction that might cross his face. So Martin’s brain does its usual thing and leaves him with nothing but three dozen unintelligible questions and a nearly empty cup of tea.

“Well,” he says, breaking the unbearable silence that follows the accusations. “It says caretaker on my contract, I truly have no idea what you’re on about.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Before Martin can tell him what he thinks of his opinions, the man continues on, shaking his head. “There’s too much magic here. It’s stagnant and trapped, restless, hungry… it’s, pouring out from the books and your room, and your desk, and this…” A shudder runs through him. “ _Hollowed out place_ downstairs, soaks it up completely into its own famished nothingness...” He gestures at the wall above Martin’s bed. “even that… Weave, over there.”

Oh no, that’s not a critique he’s willing to hear today. ”What about it?”

“Where did you get it?”

“I… I mean, it’s just something I’ve made?”

The man gives him a nonplussed look again.

“I’ve been here a long time…”

“How long?” he urges, leaning forward.

_Hungrily_ , Martin thinks.

He hesitates, but answers, “Two years?”

His brows furrow deeply. “Two years,” he says breathlessly. Martin shifts on the bench. “You’ve been here this entire time?”

There’s something else Martin can’t quite pin down in his voice. Some sort of… like a veil of sorrow over a grave of thoughts, but there’s something shifting restlessly in the haunted stillness, deep down in the dark recesses of his eyes.

And it’s looking back.

“Yes.”

“And you’re not… Affiliated with any of the Lukases?”

“Affiliated?” he echoes curtly. Perish the thought.

“You’re not…” His guest looks away awkwardly, “related to any of them? Distant relatives?” he grimaces, “Married into the family?”

“What makes you think that?”

The man takes a beat to answer, clearing his throat. “You bear their colours, or lack off…” He motions stiffly at Martin’s hair but catches himself from saying anything more.

Martin blinks, giving him a flat look. “No, I’m not affiliated with the Lukases, but let’s say they weren’t kind enough to keep me employed, and that I was somehow related to them. Are you suggesting I've only been hired because of my connections?”

Well, that’d be a first.

“What? No, of course not.” The man looks a little funny when startled, Martin tries to hold on to his temper but he can’t quite bring himself to feel indignation at the man… Especially when he flattens his mouth, like he has to physically stop himself from saying something he’s dying to say.

Martin lets him steep and sips his tea.

“Well, then why are you asking me that?” Martin finally says when the silence stretches, a little more kindly despite himself. “I’m sure they would be running out of relatives if they put them in every little business venture they owned. There’s only so much Nepotism can do, and if you asked me, I don’t think anything would get done if the entire town was operated by Lukases.”

His sombre visitor mumbles something about ghost towns and sighs heavily. He reluctantly leans back in the chair. “What do you know about magic?”

Martin frowns. “I mean, I know it’s there but,” he offers neutrally, flashes of memories whiplash through him, urging him to wash them away with another cup of tea. “It’s not something just anyone can do, right? I wouldn’t know the first thing about it.”

He squints, and for a moment Martin dreads he might pull an unwilling answer out of him. But thankfully, he only grimaces and nods, working his jaw thoughtfully.

“You said… You said this place wasn’t just a Library?” Martin asks gingerly.

The man inhales, “No, it is not.”

“Then what is it?”

His guest looks at him gravely. A tad lost and very unwilling to ask for directions. “And you would believe anything I tell you?” He inquires solemnly, with a strange little glint in his eyes. Like his answer _matters_. Martin might laugh at how surreal all of this was if it didn’t take his breath away. “You don’t even know me.”

Martin thinks a moment, then shrugs. “You trusted me earlier, and you don’t know me either.”

“You are Martin Blackwood,” the stranger says factually.

Martin feels dread seize his heart, like a punch to the guts. It feels… wrong, terribly wrong, to be known.

And yet, something leaps wildly in his chest. It wants to breathe and is trashing for its life.

The man, to his credit, looks a bit contrite at Martin’s reaction, currently stunned into silence.

“It has to be you,” the man clarifies, like it explains anything. He presses on with an unexpected eagerness, “I didn’t think this place was real, or actually accessible through normal means, we only had hearsays to work with and your friend’s statement to go by-”

Martin frowns, “My friend?” Somehow he doesn’t feel strong enough to admit to this technically-complete-stranger that he doesn’t, in fact, have any friends left.

Still, the man nods with renewed energy, sharp and precise. “She told me about you. She couldn’t reach or see you, and neither could I, and…” He swallows with difficulty. “I had too many pressing matters at the time to _look_ harder into it.” He loses himself in a hard memory for a moment and shakes himself out of it. “Two years…”

Fine, if the man wants to feel aghast over things that cannot be changed, Martin will keep this conversation on tracks. “Do you happen to know her name?”

Something dark passes over his face. The tense silence lingers on until his voice raises soberly. “I could tell you her name, but it won’t be the right one,” the man answers cryptically.

That… That doesn’t make any sense, and the man sits tensely, clearly done with the topic, or dreading its return.

Martin, polite, accommodating, awkward Martin, cradles his cup of tea and doesn’t find any answers there either.

“I’ve heard of you as well, I think,” Martin suddenly admits.

He carefully looks up across the table to find the man with his lips slightly parted, like he had been about to say something. He closes his mouth quietly, raising a carefully inquisitive brow.

“Just hearsays as well.” Martin rushes to reassure him. “I mean, it’s not like people are gossiping to me about you, if you are that person. God knows what they might be saying about me.”

The visitor doesn’t reply right away. Instead, he tilts his head side to side, seemingly lost in thought. “They don’t exactly talk about you. They talk about the lonely man from the Library. Most of them believe it to be haunted by a ghost.”

Martin blinks, irrationally irked for reasons he can’t quite fathom. He says nothing in hopes his guest might have more to say on the subject.

He’s almost distracted by the way the man savours the warmth of his tea, his eyes closed for just a moment. There’s a streak of light filtering from his sole window, gently landing on the texture of his left hand, covered small pockmark scars.

It looks almost leathery to the touch… Almost like a-

Right. Right, back on tracks.

He clears his throat awkwardly, “... Right, well, did you believe them?” He tries to ask, unsure of what he hopes to hear.

The man nods affirmatively, and Martin’s heart sinks. “Hearsays usually have their grain of muddled truth. The existence of ghosts might be debatable, but the dead cannot eat.” His chin points at the cup precariously held in Martin’s hands. “Or drink.”

Martin, consciously or unconsciously, let go of the breath he’s been holding.

“Which still leaves a number of possibilities, but perhaps the simplest are sometimes the most likely. It is to my knowledge that…” He fumbles, maybe catching the dejected expression on Martin’s face. “... Well, although I seriously doubt their genuine interest in reading... It _is_ a Lukas-owned establishment.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” his guest repeats emphatically. Martin thinks he must hate being interrupted. Which is very hypocritical, considering how often he seems to do so himself. “That in all logic, if you were truly just an unrelated someone they hired out of the goodness of their hearts, you should be dead by now.”

Martin’s mind blanks out.

The man, apparently on a roll, pushes on, “By all usual accounts of similar cases, you should not be alive, or at the very least not without permanent permutations under the influence of this place. And if we _are_ disregarding the odds that you could be a rival a-... Agent, trapped within these walls, or lying and purposely using this place to shield your true nature from unwanted eyes, with their blessing, it doesn’t begin to explain why you would purposely let this place feed off of you when you could let it have a helpless mark, completely at your mercy-”

“Okay! Alright, enough!” Martin suddenly shouts with a high voice. This was rattling him in unexpected ways. “You are throwing wild concepts and accusations and not making any sense! I’m not- I am not a _ghost_!”

“We’ve already disproved that theory.”

Arse. “Yes, we did.” Martin snaps at the man, who is still looking at him intensely. “I unlocked the door because you asked me to. I’ve never locked anyone in here before, this has never happened! I wouldn’t let it happen! So if-” Martin breathes in deeply, trying to calm himself, and looks at the window for answers. “If this place is as bad as you say, why would I let anyone else get hurt? I mean…” he rakes a frustrated hand through his hair, swallowing the unexpected lump in his throat. “Admitting it’s all true, then maybe it’s not that bad? I mean, I’m still doing alright, and I’m paid well, I’m housed and fed, I don’t bother anyone…”

“You are doing this for your mother.” The man states evenly. Martin isn’t looking at him, though a shaky breath escapes him (what was wrong with him???). When his guest speaks again, it’s just a tad quieter. “I’ve heard you mentioned it to my pursuers earlier.”

Oh, right. He did, didn’t he? He’d said an awful lot of things in the heat of the moment, where was all that fire now?

After a few more difficult breaths, Martin hears a chair moving and turns to see the stranger standing, eyeing something over Martin’s shoulder. As he’s about to ask him what was going on (what did he do?), the man only raises a hand and shakes his head. He moves past Martin and reaches his workbench where lies the grey little book he’d been working on the past few days.

He picks it up almost gingerly as if it might just bite him if he goes in too fast. The burnt fingers of his right-hand splay over the cover as he carefully turns the book over itself.

When nothing alarming happens, the man hums thoughtfully and calmly makes his way back to his seat, barely taking his eyes off the book he brought back with him.

When he’s done with his examination, the man finally looks up at Martin, raising a brow. His hands are still covering as much of the surface of the book as possible and Martin gets the irrational impression he’s trying to hide it away from him.

He straightens his back a bit, apparently back to his interrogations. “Do you often bring artefacts like this one back to your quarters?”

“Oh,” Martin’s voice is still a bit scratchy, but the change of topic undoes the knot in his throat. “well the books need repairs sometimes. This one had a few tears.”

Both of the man’s brows nearly fly off to his hairline.

“You’ve repaired it.”

“That’s what I said, yes.”

Something… comes undone in the rigid posture of his guest. He lowers the book to his knees as he leans back, his face slacking just enough to show something like bafflement, his eyes tumultuous and disbelieving. “… It let you repair it,” he nearly whispers. Martin doesn’t hear it as much as he feels it, caressing his heart warmly.

“I mean,” he tries to shrug off the breath-taking shiver with a weak laugh. “it’s just a book?”

“This,” he grimaces slightly, raising the book with one hand. “is what might classify as a fairly potent magical book, and the more powerful they are, the more they tend to be… Particular, let’s say.”

Uh. “Okay.”

“And those items of power don’t usually let themselves get damaged by just anyone.”

“Alright.”

“Or sometimes, even allow repairs on them.”

The man looks at him intently, like he was willing Martin to catch on what he was trying to say. “Hrm, so there are magical books here. Got it.”

The man closes his eyes, apparently trying to summon some measures of patience. Martin winces.

His guest opens his mouth and then closes it, mulling over his words. “I think,” he says slowly, enunciating each word primly. “If we go with the theory where you are not, in fact, lying about your identity-”

“Much appreciated.”

“- **It** may be that you have been afforded some form of protection from your establishment’s denizens.”

Martin looks at him puzzled. “... The books?”

“Yes, you may recall we’ve established they can be quite fickle to handle.”

“Yes but I don’t _recall_ you saying they could hypothetically do that. I mean, you’re talking about them like they’re people.”

The man, for once, doesn’t say anything.

“You’re joking…”

“Do you treat them like people?” He asks instead, eyes strangely intense and restless.

_Like it matters…_

Martin barely has enough time to think _How could I not_ when he feels his throat clamp tight in embarrassment.

After a few minutes of silence, the man finally lowers the book back to his laps and huffs quietly.

“You can’t stay here.”

Martin raises his head. _I don’t want to stay here_ “What? Why not?”

“You may believe you are safe here, and maybe you are for the time being, but you are not. The longer you take to leave, the longer it will take to recover.”

“What is there to recover from?” Martin feels a sliver of ice dig in his heart and lets it cut deeper, not meeting the magic-user’s dark eyes. “And where would I even go? There’s nothing left out there for me, I’m right where I’m needed.”

Martin can practically hear him tense his jaw. “Is that what you truly believe?”

_I don’t want to stay here_ “Well… It feels right.”

The man continues to look at him in silence with a conflicted wrinkle between his brows. Martin doesn’t want to think he's pitying him, but it's likely.

“Come with me.”

“What?”

Well, that’s one way of snapping him out of his blues. He couldn’t have heard that right…

The man is still frowning, but there’s the same restless determination as earlier. “You said you had nowhere else to go,” he reiterates, actually standing up from his chair. “You’ve helped me when you had no reasons to, so let me return the favour. I can’t leave you here in good conscience, knowing that you’re alive.”

Martin feels himself back away instinctively, the man stops moving. “I mean- I mean I can’t, I don’t think I should leave?”

“ _Why not?_ ” he demands curtly. Martin closes his eyes as the odd feeling grips him.

“I… Must stay here. I don’t know what will happen to me if I break my contract.”

_Where did that come from?_

Nevertheless, it seems to deescalate the stranger’s immediate response, returning to that same improbable glint of thoughtful frustration. His eyes quickly scan the room. Martin knows, there are no answers there. He’d looked for them before, in every nook and cranny.

His black and silver head flutters as he huffs wearily and moves to the window, observing contemplating the merrymakers walking all around the square with not a care in the world. Martin’s chest tightens at the thought that the man might already be thinking of leaving, but perhaps… Well, what else could be done here? Martin wasn’t coming along, he couldn’t. It dawns on Martin how true the words felt when they were ripped out of him, no matter how ludicrous they were, rationally speaking.

It made no damn sense.

Martin huffs a little breathlessly as well and goes to stand by the window as well. It seems like this little indulgent dream was coming to an end.

“Don’t worry about me,” Martin says. He might as well end it with a comforting lie. “I’ll be alright. Maybe I just need a little more time to step out the front door myself? That’s what I was going to do today...”

“It won’t let you,” the man says tactlessly, then amends after a beat. “Not without a toll.” When Martin says nothing, he adds. “If there is a magical contract involved, I cannot interfere directly. You’ll either have to be released from your engagement with the Lukases, or redirect the focal point of this place onto something else long enough for it to loosen its claim on you while you make your escape. ”

“Like a distraction?”

The man blinks at him flatly. “It’s another way of saying it, yes.”

Before Martin can ask more questions on that topic, his guest awkwardly clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “I wanted to apologize for how I startled you earlier.”

Martin’s brows climb up his forehead. There’s a number of things that startled him today, though the man wasn’t giving him any specifics. He lets out a surprised laugh as he shakes his hands dismissively. “No harm done. Though I think ‘ _startled_ ’ is a bit of an understatement.” The man raises an eloquent brow at him and Martin feels himself mimicking the gesture with a timid smile. “You did run into me, you know.”

The man’s ears take on a distinctively lovely shade of pink. “Right. I didn’t… think this through.”

“I can imagine. You seem like a popular man.”

The man’s face goes blank, and for a second Martin worries he might have insulted him. He then starts mumbling something. Martin doesn’t know what to make of the hint of berating in his voice. “We _are_ in Market Chipping, are we?”

“I mean,” Martin gestures at the window, catching sights of bright colours and ribbons twirling in the air below. “where else are you expecting to be?”

“Oh, I don’t know, perhaps a horrible maze of infinite corridors and mirrors where colours taste wrong and sounds erode your teeth.”

There’s something like an expecting silence after that. Martin shuffles awkwardly. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

“Am I, indeed.” The man says ruefully, which only bewilders Martin even more. He thinks he spies the beginning of a smirk on the man’s thin lips, but it’s quickly replaced by a thoughtful frown.

“You said I could leave through this window, yes?”

Ah, there it is.

“In theory. I mean, you're welcome to try it. It’s a bit high to jump off, but-”

The man shakes his head. “That won’t be an issue for me. If you could help me open it…”

_He’s leaving_ “Oh right, of course! There’s a trick to it-”

He unlatches the window and the sounds of the square pour into the room. Shouts and sharp noises. Clicks and Clacking of boots and heels on the neat cobblestones. Martin can hear a few dogs barking and the sound of children playing, but he’s currently too preoccupied with the lead pooling down his guts and nailing him on the spot to pay attention.

The man nods sternly, inspecting something Martin couldn’t see. “Very well then. I’ll be heading off now, I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

Martin couldn’t have heard that right. “You’re coming back?”

The soon-to-be-leaving visitor turns an irritated look at him. “Of course I’m coming back. I said I would help you, didn’t I?”

_He’s coming back!_ “I mean, yeah but, why are you helping me? You said I had to do it myself?”

It’s hard to tell the difference between his irritation and his determination, they both give such an intensity to his face that it nearly glows. But his restless gaze, in particular, cuts through him with an unyielding sharpness.

“I know I can help you, so please let me.” He demands solemnly, echoing his own earlier words.

Martin can’t help but stay transfixed in his light.

_I think we could both use a friend._

Nearly tongue-tied, Martin nods numbly, not trusting the sounds threatening to come out of his mouth. He exhales deeply and notices his guest doing the same.

Martin stands silently by the window while the man’s gangly legs manage to climb up the frame. It looks a little silly to Martin but he eventually gets on the other side. Martin’s heart almost gives out as he nearly sees him slip over the steep roof slates until he presumably finds a more secure footing. As Martin fumbles with words, his departing visitor breaks the silence. “Jon.”

“Sorry?”

“You can-... My name is Jon. I forgot-” He grimaces and tenses his jaw, locking his elbows over the frame. “I don’t usually have enough time to introduce myself.” He admits with some difficulty. “This is…” he rolls his head, motioning to the window and himself, “This is all a bit dramatic, I apologize.”

Martin can’t help but smile. He notices the man inhaling sharply as he gingerly reaches out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Jon. Thank you for staying.”

Jon looks at his eyes, then his hand. Martin almost considers retracting it when he finally takes it in a firm grip, surprising Martin when the other one joins over, his burnt hand covering them both.

He can’t help but notice how _warm_ they feel. Or maybe he's just cold…

“I’m glad I found you. Please hold on a little longer, I should be back tonight or tomorrow.” He says adamantly, like he doesn’t know the words shake Martin to his core. 

He tries to ease off his nervosity with a weak laugh. “I’m glad, me too, I’ll…” Oh god. “I’m good at waiting. I can wait. You know where to find me.”

Jon almost smirks, a tad uncertain. “I can only find you if you let me.”

A smile trembles on Martin’s face. Was he-..? No. This was way too dramatic. But if this was just a dream, he could allow himself little an indulgence, right?

“I’ll let you find me, now and in the future.” Martin looks at their hands, still completely bewildered by all of this. It couldn’t be real. “If you want to. If not... I’ll find my way out, I think.”

_And yet you believe this creature over everything that you’ve known for the past 2 years?_

Martin feels Jon’s hands slowly disentangle from him and suddenly he needs to ask, “Jon?”

The hands are suddenly back pressing over him. “Martin?”

“I... It’s. You’re not real, are you?”

The answer must have stunned him. It takes a few beats for him to answer.

“What?”

He bites his lips. “How do I know you’re real? I think…” Martin closes his eyes, not wanting to see his handsome face fade into the nothingness of his dreams, now that he’s saying the words out loud. “I think, if I agree to go with you, and then wake up again to find that all of it had only been a dream…”

Could he even bring himself to say it?

Martin feels a hand vanish from their hold, and his breath peters pitifully, defeated.

He then feels the other hand turn his own around, moving his palm up. It presses a cold little square in it before closing his fingers over it.

Martin opens his eyes to find a handsome man patiently waiting for him, his gaze like a beacon through the fog. 

“This was given to me a long time ago when I was in dire need of directions. It will show you a way out if you ever get lost.” He considers their joined hands one last time and pulls back his own, gripping the frame firmly. He gives Martin a final look with a sharp nod, “I’ll see you, Martin.”

Martin smiles, a brilliant thing curls in his chest. “If I don’t see you first.”

His mysterious guest offers the closest thing to a smile Martin had seen on him thus far, awkward and dry and utterly wondrous-

And then bends his knees and jumps.

Martin yelps and rushes to the windowsill, following Jon’s shape on his rapid descent. He barely catches sight of his ill-fitted coat (his coat!!!) flapping as it gets caught in the rush of air around him, almost slowing down his fall gracefully. Martin loses track of him as soon as he goes beyond the range of visibility of the dormer window, and proceeds to stand there for a moment, waiting and baffled and hearing no sounds of panic or horror coming from the people below.

_A bit Dramatic, he had said. Unbelievable._

Martin closes the window mechanically and likewise goes through the motion of sitting on his bed, shoulders slumping as he lets all the air out of his lungs. When he feels brave enough, he opens his palm to inspect a silver lighter cradled in it. His thumb absently runs over a soft, intricate design of a cobweb. The metal feels cold, but it’s nothing to Martin.

Tonight or tomorrow, he had said. He could wait until then.

This… This was _incredibly_ thrilling… 

And if he doesn’t… Well.

Martin flips the lighter open. The design appears… odd to Martin, but something tells him it had to be a lighter. The parts were familiar enough. His thumb flicks the wheel three times before it finally sparks to life. Just a little flame, burning in a cold, hungry mouth.

If the Archivist doesn’t come back for him, at least now Martin has something to light the way.

But he said he’d come back, so he won’t have to… Right?

Waiting is going to feel like forever, isn’t it?

<0><0><0>

He would be lying if Martin claimed he hadn't been pacing around his quarters.

His new intriguing... friend? Acquaintance??... Jon hadn't exactly gone into much details over how he had planned to return. As soon as possible is still a rather vague timescale, and again if Martin is honest with himself, he feels more than ready to leave.

There hadn't been any more incidents afterwards, thankfully. As expected, no-one came today, and though the celebrations continued around town for quite some time after sunset, it had still thankfully, significantly quieted down. And whether he decided to believe Jon's claims or not, Martin couldn't deny that he'd felt... a weight slowly settled itself back over his shoulders, after he'd left.

It is quite late now, and Martin can't bring himself to sleep. Maybe he needs to stay awake so Jon can retrace his way back to the Library? Or maybe this was all unnecessary.

What if he was eaten whole while he slept, now that he knew what was happening to him? Could the magic here do something to him when he wasn’t awake?

So Martin sits at his solitary table with his umpteenth cup of tea (which so far did very little for his nerves, but it _had_ desiccated his pantry) when three sharp knocks reverberate across the entire building, possibly shaking it in its very foundation.

Martin nearly drops his cup and, heart in his throat, runs down the stairs, heading for the door.

Which is only when he notices the doorknob turning on its own, and the door opening to let a tall man with bright green eyes walk in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I wouldn't stop this chapter at the cliffhanger I had _originally_ planned for it. I didn't say I wouldn't use one.  
> (I promise this was a last-minute addition)  
> Now... I gotta go back to Translating the environmental effects of fullerene particles... 
> 
> As always,  
> you can talk to me on Tumblr at [Midnightsingvogel](https://midnightsingvogel.tumblr.com/)  
> thank you for reading, I love you all.


	4. in which Martin is not-quite shown the door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Bite my tongue, bide my time_  
>  _Wearing a warning sign_  
>  _Wait 'til the world is mine_  
>  _Visions I vandalize_   
> _Cold in my kingdom size_   
> _Fell for these ocean eyes_   
> _  
> _\-- Billie Eilish,__["You should see me in a crown"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K6xBwcQTGac)  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So since there's another analogous AU being written right now, I've debated calling my shots and putting up all of the cast's roles in the tags (so no one would call me a cheat when our ideas inevitably coincide and key characters happen to be in the same spots--Ok you laugh but back in the DC fandom people got REALLY touchy over copycat fics, and to be fair those happened more than you'd think??? which is ironic considering how everyone was scrounging for notes- COUGH anyway),,, 
> 
> but after watching Jonny Sims's Friday stream where he said something along the lines of _"Know when you're going to reveal stuff; know WHEN the audience is meant to discover stuff, and DON't change that. Just stick to it."_... I've ultimately decided to keep you guys on your toes and let the story unfold as it goes. Just know that I've already chosen all my characters and most of the fic is already plotted, I'm just not super fast and English is still a tad difficult for me. 
> 
> I gotta be strong and make Jonny Sims proud. Hopefully you guys can enjoy it as it goes, I thank you for your patience. So, without further ado :
> 
> Warning for this chapter:
> 
> \- Angst (Terror, Cruelty, Betrayal, and all their fun folks)  
> \- Eye-typical Scopophobia  
> \- Lonely-typical depression and ideations (briefly)  
> \- (Not quite) canon-typical violence (someone gets grabbed)  
> \- Wacky Magic  
> \- Peter Lukas (as Himself)
> 
> Enjoy!!

Martin blinks and the flash of green is gone. 

Was that only a trick of his imagination? An awful shiver runs down his spine. 

Which, in retrospect, was probably the moment he should have listened to his instincts. 

For a second, Martin thinks he hears a strange sound coming from all around him, like scuttling, or like wood crackling in very quick succession, as if suddenly put under an impossible weight.

A fit silhouette in sharply made clothes stands in the open doorway, one hand on the handle and the other on the frame. The only light source in the room comes from the streetlamps outside, pouring on the gray floor from the window. It frames the sharpness of his shoulders like an ominous crown behind him. 

Of course, none of this actually provides any reassurance to Martin, who couldn’t see a damn thing. But he could see the shape of a pearly white smile as it stretches in the penumbral backlight. Charming, affable, and deadly.

And there’s no doubt the person has seen him, his awkwardly body frozen on the spot, clasping his hands to his stomach.

“Ah! Just the man of the hour,” a pleasant voice says in the dark. The intruder opens the door widely and steps further inside. 

Martin startles back into action. What had Jon said earlier? He has to send this man away as soon as possible. “A bit of a late hour, I’m afraid?”

“Oh I did knock you know, you may consider it as the courtesy it was.”

Too nervous to process the nonsense he’s just heard, Martin raises his hands apologetically at the man. “I’m terribly sorry sir, we’re closed for today, but if you can come back tomor-”

“Of course, I suppose it is a bit late for business hours. Fortunately for you, this place won’t _require_ any more business hours by dawn.” Martin feels his hands lower slowly, shocked out of his wit. His eyes follow the man walking casually into the room, addressing him over his shoulder. “So I suggest you go pack your meager belongings while we deal with the more... meaningful content of this sorry excuse for a Place of Knowledge.”

As he says ‘we’, two hulking figures step into the room, one after the other. Their shoulders are large enough to block the entire length of the door as they pass through it. Martin gets distracted as he catches words from the two giants, speaking in a strange circular pattern.

“This is it, then-”

“That’s not a lot-”

“It won’t take too long.”

Wait, wait hold on! Martin walks to the seemingly-pleasant man, “Sir this- Sir I don’t understand what you’re trying to do here but I think-”

“Oh, you’re still here?” The man, tall with a sharp face and slicked dark hair, spares a discarding glance at him. “I’d assumed my instructions would have been simple enough for you to follow, but perhaps I overestimated.” The man shakes his head regretfully. Martin feels his cheeks redden. 

“No! No I’ve heard you perfectly clear, _Sir_. But I’m pretty sure you need the Mayor’s permission to-” Martin inhales as he sees the duo piling up some things by the side of the door. “-to, to ransack the place? I don’t mean to insult you, Sir, but I think this counts as-”

“A Robbery?” The man smiles unkindly, there’s a hint of a laugh in his voice. “Why would I rob what’s rightfully mine?”

Martin grits his teeth. “Sir, do you have _any_ paperwork attesting your claims on the property???”

The man raises his brows in mock surprise. “You know, that’s a very good point. I usually leave all meaningful paperwork in the safety of my coffers. I simply knew I wouldn’t meet anyone noteworthy enough to warrant bringing any relevant attestation with me.”

Martin’s jaw aches as he refrains from grimacing up at him. “Sir, you can’t just walk into buildings at night and claim ownership over- over _everything_ with no warning and no papers to prove you’re not just trespassing!” 

Martin is not a brave man, but he knows he could be petty, and Martin had always made do with what he had. He can practically hear the blood rushing to his ears as he braces himself to confront the man into leaving. “So I’m going to ask you one more time to leave and come back tomorrow with proof of your so-called _'rights to the Library’s content'_ , if that’s truly what you’re here for! I don’t even know how you-” for a wild second, Martin almost thinks the pulse in his ears feels like the telltale humming of the Library.

And suddenly, a hand grasps Martin’s face. He almost bites his tongue as hard nails dig into his skin, harshly forcing his face upward, and _pulls_ him forward. Martin’s survival instincts kick in a little too late as he attempts to unlatch the hand somehow single-handedly rendering him helpless. To no avail. 

As a gasp of terror passes through his crushed lips, Martin catches sight of strange ghost lights running through the man’s arm. When he finally looks up, an inhuman light is flickering in his eyes, eerily and malevolent. Martin forgets to move, but he feels a wetness on his face.

He couldn’t die now! He was so close-

Martin hears the deafening sound of the man’s honey smooth voice tut-tutting at him.

“You’re significantly less clever than I thought,” the man says regretfully, like that realization physically pains him. His eyes however, Martin cannot look away, are full of contempt. “I had such high hopes for you but it seems you might be more trouble than I care to handle.” He pauses and turns Martin’s face from side to side, finally sighing. “No, no. It’s such a pity. That really won’t do at all.”

Looking at the light hurts, he realizes. Everything hurts and he can barely think to squirm in the excruciating grasp. 

Which isn’t to say there aren’t little pinpricks of static struggling to return to his useless fingers.

“To think the Lukases would designate an untrained nobody of all people, but then again that’s rather on brand for them, don’t you think? I suppose I was only expecting a lot more out of this game.” He sighs deeply, still scrutinizing every inch of Martin’s face. “Perhaps I was looking _too hard_ where there was simply nothing to look for.”

Martin inhales sharply and, with a sick feeling, finds enough strength to dig his own nails viciously into the man’s arm. “So why don’t you go look for your expectations **elsewhere?** ”

All is still as the words ring through Martin like an ominous toll. He closes his eyes shut tightly, sickly wishing for all of this to go away.

His heart barely slowed down to a less disorienting thrum when he hears a contemplative sound from above him. Martin can’t swallow around the wail lodged in his throat, but he refuses to open his mouth. 

He finally looks to see the man staring down at him with the same inexplicable denigration, but his snake-like sneer curves thoughtfully on his sharp face, a mild look of surprise like he was looking at a child who did something remotely impressive. “Well that won’t help you much, but I suppose it was worth trying, I’ll give you that.”

Fear wraps around his heart, much like the man’s nails carving little half-moons alongside his jaw. His mind unexpectedly supplies a picture of his own face, tear-stained and bloodied.

Maybe… Maybe. Martin shudders desperately. it might finally end-

NO! Jon was coming for him! he couldn’t-

“I see,” the man says, after an eternity of drinking in his struggle and defeat. His voice whispers no louder than a murmur, with the sly curiosity of someone asking for an indecent secret. “Is this how you caught his eyes? I suppose he always did need a strong hand…” 

He leans terrifying close to his space, and Martin's petrified mind can only stare in horror. “Perhaps we’ll make something out of you after all…”

“Jonah,” calls a distant voice. It feels like a threat and a grievance all at once. Martin feels a bone-deep chill pass through them and clutching at his chest like a hook. He even feels the fine hair on the back of man’s wrist raise in little waves of goosebumps. 

<0><0><0>

Martin could come to term with the fact that there was a lot he had willingly chosen to ignore through his time in the Library, including the strangeness of his supervisor’s rare visits. 

The Library itself had always been a particularly chilly place, which Martin assumed was just an in-built system meant to preserve the books. It wasn't _damp_ , just chilly. He usually fought off the cold with numerous jumpers and a few extra layers. It was always somewhat colder when Peter was around, but Martin simply chalked it up as having something to do with the weather. He always did seem to drop by on grey-skied days. Martin thought he liked stormy days the most. No-one ever came on stormy days. 

The damned man could ramble up a storm over obscure topics only he seemed to understand, sometimes leading Martin to wonder if he actually spoke to regular people often, if at all. Which he would always feel bad for thinking, seeing how he himself was also quite isolated in his current position and hardly had regular conversations, save for the Lukas's sporadic visits.

Still, the self-proclaimed sea captain could talk for leagues and seldom let Martin have a single meaningful word in their empty, one-sided conversation, which admittedly, he sometimes guiltily felt were almost worse than having no conversation at all. Almost.

Peter felt… like a terribly lonely man to him.

He’s also never been much one for eye-contact, Martin noticed. He would generally stare idly at something in the room while he talked to Martin, or just a little to the side if he was feeling more engaged, which did happen on a few rare occasions. Martin didn’t mind him in that regard, he knew some people avoided eye-contact when they spoke. Likewise, he thought the man looked more comfortable when Martin wasn’t looking directly at him.

Martin wouldn’t say he knew the man. Perhaps, if he were honest, sometimes he couldn’t even stand him for extended periods of time. But still, he was familiar.

He was familiar.

<0><0><0>

Deep down, Martin knows the sudden drop of temperature has nothing to do with the wide open door of the Library, where he could still hear the two large figures continue to pile up things. His panic-warmed breath comes out in small puffs of crystallized air as he struggles to turn his head in the firm grasp holding him still.

Martin hears the loud clanging of his unhurried gait before he sees him. The broad man, unusually tall, seems to step out of nowhere as if he’d just walked out of a wall of mist. Impossible little plumes of grey fog embrace his perpetual blue coat in a transparent coil, possessively clawing at him as if to pull him back into its folds. 

As unexpected (and bewildering) as his arrival might be, Martin’s frenzied mind latches onto the chances that Peter came to finally put an end to his nightmarish day.

The man casually takes his pipe from one of his pockets, places it in his mouth, and scratches a match. The sound loud in the heavy silence of the Library's bated breath. The solitary flame illuminates his hardened face as he draws a few puffs from it.

“Oh thank God, Peter-!”

The intruder hisses viciously, loud enough to smother Martin’s words, his attention now turned toward the captain. “That’s rather rude of you, Peter. You know how I feel about fire hazards.”

To Martin’s confused dismay, the tall man doesn’t move an inch, as pale and unfeeling as the weathered pillars of the Library, and just as still as them. The man continues his unhelpful ministration with his pipe, though Martin sees in the dying light that the Lukas is looking at his assailant with a spiteful glare. Even in his current state, Martin is surprised to note there’s no smell of tobacco in the air. Only this damp coldness catching in his lungs, blooming into flowers of frost through his chest.

The man in fine clothes sighs in exasperation and gives Peter a condescending _look_ , the likes you would give to a particularly petulant child you had to bargain with.

“Oh come now Peter, you can still have your share once I’ve picked what little might be of any use to me.” He nearly rolls his eyes. “What little there is.”

The blooms in his chest travel down his spine. Martin can’t feel his legs.

“Peter?” He manages to ask in a wobbly voice. Still, Peter doesn’t spare him a glance. 

The intruder smiles almost savagely, returning his focus back on him. His other hand hovering closer and closer to his face.

“I wonder…” He muses cruelly. “Should I take your eyes? Your tongue? I’m sure you can still serve the Lukases’ _larder_ without either of those…”

“This wasn’t part of the deal.” Peter finally grits through his teeth in a deep rasp, his voice oddly grainy in the near stillness around them. It feels like sandpaper in Martin’s ears. 

“Oh Peter, we both know you riffle in the family pantry, but you don’t need to growl over your food like so.” The Lukas glowers at him, yet refuses to say more, his jaw locked in a hard set. 

The so-called Jonah smiles at him patiently and tuts on, almost gloating. “Besides, I believe the exact terms of _our_ deal entitled me to ‘The entire content of the Library’, were they not? Now, we’ve applied and _respected_ our respective terms and conditions and… you’ve _lost_ , pure and simple, Peter.” He taunts with a nearly sing-songy voice. “I get everything attached to this pitiful excuse for a 'Library', including ownership of the contract binding your laughingly unqualified and, might I say, quite _disrespectful_ employee.”

“Now hold on-”

“-Unless you’re willing to bargain something of equal worth for him? I’m sure it won’t be hard to find?” The intensity of the green flickering eyes are almost unbearable to watch. 

It’s only at that thought that Martin belatedly puts two and two together and realizes just who is holding his life hostage. 

The Watcher of the Waste grins smugly at his supervisor, “Of course, that would be admitting he’s valuable enough to bargain for, wouldn’t it?” 

He sees Peter unlock his jaw, the tiniest shift of his feet, before he locks himself back into dour silence. Not a single word passes his lips, but dark shadows etch themselves deeply in his pale stony face.

And this, he will reflect on later, is how Martin Blackwood was forsaken by the very person who had interacted with him occasionally for over 2 years.

Perhaps Jon had been right about the Lukases after all. Martin feels both betrayal and despair melt his heart as it drops sluggishly at his feet.

This entire time, Jonah had been observing Peter with a strange, calculating look. He seems to come to a conclusion as he turns a half-lidded look to Martin.

“Still, I must thank you. I wouldn’t have won without your assistance.” 

Martin looks at him in confused horror, shaking his head. “I don't-...”

“Ah-ah! Let me finish, or I might change my mind otherwise. You see, incidental as it was, you allowed me to find this location today, which I’m admittedly quite grateful for, if only for the sake of competition and fair play. But secondly, and most importantly… You unknowingly did me a great favour today, which is coincidentally also why I have no real need of someone like you at my service anymore.” He raises two fingers to his lips, his eyes twinkling maliciously. “So I think I shall be benevolent, as a show of my gratitude, and bestow upon you two gifts.”

“NO!” Peter’s voice booms as he crosses the space between them like a barreling storm. 

Turning his head with a snap, the Watcher's body shivers with a frisson of power as his eyes stare literal holes into Peter. Martin cannot look away as many pictural eyes begin to crowd the Lukas, or the expression of startled pain on his face as he seizes and stops advancing. 

Simultaneously, Martin can't tell if the overwhelming white noise comes from the magic-user or from the growing unease he could practically feel running through the book aisles, like many fluttering books caught in the wind. It’s disorienting enough that it nearly distracts him from the sound of Peter’s long body crashing on the hard wooden floor, his trademark captain hat dropping from his head and rolling at their feet.

The Watcher, unimpressed, blinks many times at the picture of the man on the floor, eventually inhaling wearily as he turns back to Martin. “You must forgive him,” he says conversationally, like he hadn’t threatened Martin of horrible things just a moment ago. “He’s in a bit of a sour mood. You see, he hates losing, and he especially _hates_ losing a mark even _more_.” The man confides, a wicked mirth in his unnatural eyes as he leans closer. “Which is why you must truly feel grateful I came to you first, hm?”

_LIKE HELL_

His defiance must show on his face. The man digs his nails a little deeper, but Martin’s resistance seems to amuse him more than anything, now that he’s spent most of his ire on someone else. 

“My first gift to you,” he says in conspiratorial voice, his initial pleasant grin back on his face. “Is freedom.”

Martin blinks, and scrunches his face confusedly. 

Fortunately, the man… monster?, doesn’t expect him to reply. He merely shakes his head good-naturally. “Meaning, you’re released from your contract with the Library, seeing as it would be of no use to me in your current form, so you’re free to go whenever you want.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say.

“Or, perhaps more accurately, _if you can._ ” he whispers ominously, finally relenting his one-handed grip on his face. Martin feels his legs give out under him, feeling lost and confused and terrified. 

The Watcher takes a moment to sneer at the blood under his nails before folding both of his arms behind his back. “You’re much too imbued with the essence of this establishment for any sort of practical extraction, but I suppose you can provide me with some measures of entertainment while my projects come into fruition.”

He looks about to turn away from him, then seems to reconsider, one hand on his sharp hip and the other to his chin.

“There’s a meaningless detail I’m forgetting…” he taps his lips thoughtfully and then snaps his fingers. “Ah yes! That would be you.”

He smiles at Martin and folds both of his hands neatly in front of him, tilting his head down with ravenous, crackling green eyes.

“I’m going to be a very busy man in the coming future, so you would do well to stay out of my _sight_ , or else I might retract my favour of letting you go without taking my dues.” 

He straightens himself again and looks at Martin from the top of his height. His smile and any trace of fake warmth in his voice are gone. “So why don’t you do us both a favor and _**disappear**_.”

Martin sees the flat of the man’s polished shoe connect with his chest before he even has the time to react, or scream. He feels himself falling backward and falling and then there's nothing but numbing cold and damp for a long, long time.

<0><0><0>

Martin has been awake for a while now, but the concept of time has eluded him ever since his vision swam back into focus. So for an unfathomable long while, he could do nothing but stare blankly at the flaking arches of dulled gold over his head. 

It’s not that he doesn’t see the passing of time, but it doesn’t touch him the same way it used to from where he remains laid down on the floor. He thinks he can remember colours other than yellowing whites and glaucous verdigris. The light comes and goes across the frosted windows without disturbing the dust scattered around him like an myriad of delicate powdery flowers, a mockery of blessed Elysium. He knows, rationally, those are usually signs of time passing, and he knows a layer of that thickness signifies an actually quite troublesome amount of time has passed. 

It comes to him slowly, the awareness. It returns with an almost gentle push, a small gasp of surprise, like a hand brushing through his hair. It’s just enough for him to sit himself up, troubled and confused. Martin scoots his body to lean against a desiccated wall, trying to take in (or rationalize) everything around him. 

He knew these walls, he knows. They always had this sense of wasted time and effort, the impossible task of keeping the world from falling down around him. Only now they truly did look the part. Maybe, he thinks dejectedly, they’ve always looked like that, and he simply refused to see it. His eyes roam from the walls to the floor to his legs, realizing with a choked cry of panic that his feet were no longer visible where they should have been. 

No! No he couldn’t be dead, he couldn’t be! 

He tries to stand up just to prove this exact point. Using the wall to support himself, he feels eerie little pinpricks on his legs, which he takes as a good sign despite not seeing any of his limbs through the difficult ordeal. Once more assured of his footing, he lets go of the wall and takes a few steps away, deeper into the Library. 

Although, it wasn’t a Library anymore, just a skeleton. The dark wood shelves tower empty and gutted like darkened teeth and gums. The floor cracks under the weight of his feet, which would reassure him greatly if the resounding noise didn’t remind him of a dying moan. 

He is utterly alone, not even the building hums its ominous tune, not even its familiar cold reaches him. The columns are no longer hovering oppressively, they’ve become the dried bones of slumbering giants, starved dead in their slumber. The books are gone- 

The books are gone… 

His memory is still fuzzy, like tatters of sheets in the fog, but he remembers the man. His hands cover his mouth as he stands in the desecrated remains of his old cage. 

_do us both a favor and disappear._

Oh god. 

So this was what was happening to him? A poisoned _gift_ from a cruel man? For his entertainment?? Martin’s breath hitches, feeling the burn of anger and bitterness grown in his chest. 

He spent all this time thinking - lying to himself, true, but still - that this place would keep him safe, or would at the very least be better than the outside, and in the end it did nothing for him. THAT hurts, but that ache is still better than the pool of disconnected apathy he woke from. 

Pulling his hands away from his face, Martin stares at them-- at where they should be in front of him. 

_Stay out of my sight._

Martin tightens his palms into fists and feels his (blunt?) nails dig into them. He unclenches them slowly, still trying to temper down his smothering anger. “You know what?” His voice snaps in the emptiness around him, cracking in odd ways, much like the wooden floors. It seems like grime even lodged itself in the back of his throat, he doesn’t sound like himself. “Maybe I **don’t want** to do you any favor! You snake oil bastard can take your gratitude and shove it up your- AH!” 

Martin’s hands shake as they slowly take form before his eyes. He turns the ghostly pale limbs up and down. 

He pats himself - what he can see of himself - confused and relieved and thoroughly exposed in the heart of this abandoned sanctuary. Martin practically runs up the stairs, back to his lodgings - surprisingly left untouched and just as pale and forlorn as the rest of the ground floor - and rushes to his small bathroom. He’s been gone long enough that he needs to clear the dust off his mirror to see his own reflection. 

Martin swallows around a lumps in his throat, and the need to cry comes back in full force. 

A familiar stranger stares back at him in the glass, yet it looks nothing like him. 

He touches the skin of what should be his face, cracking in places, and raising in others where his freckles should have been. It reminds him of old weathered parchment. _He looks like a paperthin old man._ His hair had paled significantly in the past few years, which he had foolishly attributed to anxiety or lack of sunlight (who knew, not him!), but now somehow any trace of its original rich pigmentation is gone, leaving only a wispy layer of white hair crowning his head. His eyes… 

His eyes are the worst, he thinks. They used to be a warm hazel. Now they look just like Peter’s had, as misty and distant as the winter sea. 

The mere thought of Peter is enough to rekindle his anger. 

Martin almost lays his frustration out on the nearby furniture, almost tempted to rampage anything within reach in a fit of hurt and fury. Almost. 

Instead, he lets his feet guide him through his quarters, teeth gritted hard as he pulls, draws, and folds things. He’s not entirely aware of what he’s doing, but his brain keeps flashing with a few choice words and the need to do something useful with his anger. 

When he’s calmed down enough to notice he’s practically turned his apartments upside down, he acknowledges that he’s just made a rough bag out of his homemade weave with raw thread. He throws a look at its content to find that there’s nearly every useful item he owns that could come in handy for a journey into the unknown. A journey into anywhere, anywhere but here. 

Which was still not a lot, he thinks bitterly. He’ll need to get food supplies before he leaves (was he hungry? His throat still felt awful…), but there’s a few changes of clothes in it, and old waterskin he never used when he was younger, and a few of his journals… 

Right… 

Right. 

Almost as an afterthought, Martin changes into dustless clothes, since he was still covered in the stuff. He puts on a few layers just in case, though to be honest he didn’t… quite feel the cold anymore. Still, the sky was grey outside, it had to be the right weather for a coat. 

Martin grabs his bag, hoists its sole improvised strap over his shoulder, puts an old straw hat he never had a use for (he wasn’t unaware enough to ignore how his face looked odd…), and with an apprehensive sigh, goes downstairs. 

There he stands before his last obstacle between him and the world. 

Martin waits hesitantly for that telltale malaise he’d felt before. The drag against his feet at every step. The whispers of doubts in his heart that came over him every time he entertained the idea of _leaving it all_ , this job, this town… 

His mother… 

The building groans mournfully but Martin doesn’t get the impression it was mourning his departure. 

Nothing came. No-one came either when he was… whatever he was. Whatever happened to him. Not even J- 

He shakes off that thought, he didn’t need that right now. Nothing was holding him here anymore. It was just him and the door. 

Cloaking himself with spiteful determination, Martin unlocks the door one more time, and steps outside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aight guys, it's gonna feel like a freefall for another 2-3 chapters, so I've decided to stop this one on a less... well, on a gentler slope instead a cliff. This is where the fun starts! 
> 
> I'm taking some liberties with the plot which will be tied up together later in the story,  
> (there's... so many characters, I'll have to decide what to keep to this fic and what to keep in my backpocket if I feel inspired enough after reading Castle in the Air),  
> BUT In my head/in my planning this fanfic's plot is close enough to the plot of the book (cause god knows I can't write original stories e_e), Anyway, in any case,
> 
> I love you all, thank you for reading.
> 
> Coming up next : Martin seeks a friend


	5. in which Martin goes looking for a friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I like people who dream or talk to themselves interminably;_   
>  _I like them, for they are double. They are here and elsewhere."_
> 
> \-- Albert Camus, _The Fall_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally done with winter semester's classes (and apparently I got a summer class lineup? Which I haven't registered to??? In any case, I've been lowkey brain dead for the two past days so I hope this chapter came out alright. You might notice I've got some... indulgent opinions. Do they work in a fantasy setting? Maybe. I might rework some of that in the future. I'll talk more about it in the End Notes. 
> 
> PSA I'm still looking for a beta if someone feels generous enough to lend assistance.  
> So, without further ado:
> 
>   
>  Warning for this Chapter:
> 
> \- Typical-Lonely effects and isolation  
> \- Discussions of identity/non-identity  
> \- Angst?  
> \- *clap hands* Ex-po-si-tioooon!  
> \- Canon-Typical violence/Terror  
> \- Canon-Typical body horror
> 
> Let me know if I've forgotten something.  
> Enjoy <3

The outside looks... significantly paler than what he remembers. 

He’d stopped short right after setting foot out of the Library, still expecting some impending doom to befall him as soon as he’d exited the building. Yet, again, nothing came. If anything, someone almost ran into him as he stood there, half-blinded by the cold brightness of the white sky. 

The person gives him an odd look and moves along, perhaps a little faster than necessary. Martin self-consciously readjusts the hat over his head. If he’s not careful it might get picked up by the wind. He catches a glimpse of his hand, which seems almost… slightly diaphanous in the light, and quickly shoves it back down his pocket. It’s still hard to _see_ without squinting, but it’s better to get moving before anyone starts paying too much attention to him. 

It’s… odd, actually. The streets aren’t crowded, per se, in fact he’s not quite sure why everything feels so… _mournful_ , if that makes sense. Like a heaviness weighing over people. 

However, as soon as he felt the need to make himself scarce, there were suddenly a lot less passerbys sharing his side of the street. From the corner of his eyes, he could see how glances seem to slide off of him like water over a raincoat. 

_Ah, right… People had speculated he was a ghost, right?_

This reminder makes him nervous enough to check his own body constantly, just to make sure it was still there. 

Martin finally stops at a corner street by the market. The sounds of loud bartering he expects to find there are significantly muted, if compared to his memories of the place. At first he thinks there might be something wrong with his hearing, but after further observation, he sees that most of the people at the market are very much like the ones he’d come across on his way there: almost eerily forlorn. Exchanges are made briskly and quietly, and parties would shuffle away like passing ships in the night. If Martin didn’t know any better, he’d think they were all terrified of something- 

Oh no.

Was it-... Did it have something to do with the Lukases? Or something worse?

Was it _Martin???_

No, no no, that didn’t make sense. He’d been away for god knows how long, it certainly didn’t look like May anymore. Well, alright, he couldn’t really rule it out either, but he definitely didn’t think it was him.

Right?

He needed more information, but where could he ask without raising suspicions? Even if he… Ah... He would probably need to be _seen_ to get some answers, wouldn’t he? You could only get so much from eavesdropping… 

Maybe… It might be a shot in the dark, but perhaps Sasha was still working at the town’s bakery. It was as good a point to start as any, and it wasn’t like he had a lot of options. Surely she’d remember him even if he didn’t quite look the same… 

Gripping the satchel of his makeshift messenger bag, Martin turns and lets his legs follow the familiar path to the bakery.

The building, much like the rest of the town in this weather, looks slightly discolored, but nonetheless emits a soothing aura of warmth. If Martin had time to write more about it, he would say it had always been the true heart of this town; familiar and welcoming, a hearth for the soul even in the worst of winter. 

It doesn't seem too busy at the moment, so Martin lowers his hat a little more, perhaps even laughably low to anyone who might be looking. Fortunately for him, the only curious eyes cast toward him are the statues sporadically looming from over edges of the rooftops. 

Martin braces himself and goes inside.

Inside was much warmer, as expected, though not as suffocating as Martin remembers it to be at its full swing. He presumes the slowness of the day’s custom has consequently slowed the productions of the ovens as well. Not that he knows anything of how a bakery should work, but still, it feels different. 

Martin gingerly makes his way to the counter where a strong-armed person welcomes him with a wan smile, hands on their hips. Martin clears his throat, though it changes very little about its grating roughness.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he says, polite and a little high. His voice cracks at all the wrong places in an unpleasant double tone, like a weight dragged over stones. “I used to know someone who worked here, I was wondering if perhaps you knew if she was still around?” 

The baker squints at him a bit, and cocks their head with a wry smirk, deepening their frown. Martin’s self-consciousness rears its head abruptly. He makes an effort to stand a little taller. 

“Sure,” they finally say, eyeing him critically, but he catches a hint of humour in their voice. “Lots of people left for the Capital in the past months. Maybe I’ll tell you something. What’s the name?”

Oh? Oh alright. This was going somewhere. “Uhm. Sasha James?”

The baker’s eyebrows shot up, and then they kind of rolled their eyes with an exasperated (fond?) smile on their face. “Oh right, you’re one of _those_ friends. Look, pick something to buy and I’ll go get Sash, how about that? Get your nerves steady and all that before you propose or whatever it is you’ve come to do.” The baker nods meaningfully at the display case and then walks into the backroom. A clerk takes the front right away and looks at him expectedly. Martin lowers his eyes, still trying to process what just happened. And what did that _even mean?_

Oh wait, did he even have change to buy anything at all-

While he pats his pockets for money he knows he won’t find, he spies a shape peaking through the frame. Martin suddenly feels like this might have been a very very bad idea-

“Can I help you?” He can hear there’s a polite smile in her voice. Martin frowns as he thinks there’s something wrong about it, but then again, he’s hardly one to talk- _Wait maybe it’s not the same Sasha-_

She says nothing and Martin nervously raises his eyes. They’re met with a tall woman with blonde eyebrows, her hair tucked neatly in a pretty baker’s cap. She leans her arms on the counter and tilts her head. Something itches at the back of Martin’s mind, but he couldn’t figure out what.

She raises an eyebrow and Martin hastily lowers his face, expecting his cheeks to burn by now, but no, nothing. If anything he feels a little colder.

“I’m really sorry to bother you I think I made a mistake-”

“Martin?”

He snaps his eyes back up again, the woman ( _your Friend, Martin!_ ) looks at him with a smirk. 

“H-Hi Sash…”

Her eyes crinkles in all the ways that show her delight to see him, her smile is large and familiar. She is Sasha, of course. Regardless of how none of that glee reflects in her dull, steady eyes. 

She stands arms akimbo and inhales deeply, turning to her coworker. “Well it’s about time for my break. Is it ok if I let you guys deal with the rush?” She waves at the nearly empty store with an awkward fling, a motion of dubious fluidity. The other employee gives her a flat look, which only prompts her to smile more. The first baker pops their head out of the door and points a finger at all of them. “Yeah you can, Sash, but I better not hear any funny business coming from upstairs.”

The other clerk lifts his eyes to the ceiling, both hands pulling his face downward. “Oh now I’m gonna have that image stuck in my head, real thanks for that.”

“I mean it! It’s hell for the cleaning team and, worst of all, I’ll know!”

Sasha tilts her head down and laughs, her shoulders rising with little shakes as she unties her apron. “Don’t you worry, I won’t do anything you wouldn’t do.” The baker looks very cross for a moment and the other one laughs hysterically at his face. She waves and leaves them bickering, rounding the corner to take Martin’s hand and silently guides him up the stairs, to the bakery’s dormitory. Once she sees the room is empty, she motions for him to sit at a small table, pushing a roll of bread toward him. 

Martin looks at the loaf and then back at her. “I’m really sorry I’m- I’m really confused right now. Sasha-…” Why was it so hard to say her name? He frowns over this as he sees her shake her head and retrieve a brioche for herself, tearing it apart meticulously between elegant, pointy fingers. 

“You are Martin, correct?” She says with a tad too much enunciation. What _was_ that accent... 

“Yes. I mean, I know I look _different_ , but it’s… I’m me, yes.”

Sasha nods sagely, which only continues to bewilder him. 

“Of course, that makes perfect sense.”

Martin raises a brow, “Does it???” 

She continues to nod and then leaves the brioche, instead putting both of her elbows on the table and folding her hands in front of her.

“Of course. Because you are Martin, and I am Sasha.”

Martin blinks twice, “Oookay?”

She mimics him with a slight delay, her head tilted as she smiles patiently. 

“But I am not _your_ friend.”

_Well obviously!_

Wh-?? Martin shakes his head and grimaces at her confusedly. “Wait, but why- Why did you bring me here if you don’t know me-… Who _are_ you???”

He tries to stand but a gentle grip circles his wrist. He’s about to tug it back when the cold, still powdery hand tightens threateningly. 

Not-Sasha smiles that same understanding smile but it’s tighter now, like it just hangs on her face over muted eyes. She leans a bit closer over the table, staring straight at him from under her pale lashes. “I told you, I am Sasha.”

“Sure, sure.” Martin tries to breathe normally, he didn’t particularly want this situation to escalate, but worry gnawed at the back of his mind. “Who are you if you’re not-… _Why_ do I know you?”

She shrugs, but remains perfectly still, like an armed trap.

“I do not have the patience or a lunch break long enough to get into all the details, but I think I owe you some explanation.” Her mouth twitches a bit and the tension on her face loosens into something else. “At least for _your_ friend’s sake, yeah?”

“Her name is Sasha!”

“ _Was_. I _Am_ Sasha.” 

She suddenly lets go of his wrist. Martin pulls it back quickly, clutching it to his stomach.

“But you can go, if you want.” She raises a brow, and her grin is pure pasted malice. “You will never know what became of her. But I suppose that’s what your people thrive on, do they not?”

“My people??” The crackling almost splits his voice as his temper flares. “Everyone keeps talking about things I don’t understand and- Does it look like I did this to myself?”

She shrugs again, leaning her head on one of her hands. Her fingers make an odd sound as they card through her hair. 

“I do not particularly care for that domain of magic, or any human magics at all for that matter. Who knows why you do all those things to yourselves. The prices you are willing to pay for a single wish and then bemoan evermore, regardless of how fair or foolish the deal was.”

She takes a bit of ripped brioche and Martin thinks he glimpses more rows of teeth than a human would normally have. She must have done it on purpose, he thinks, as she turns an unnerving smile full of serrating teeth at him.

So… Just an uneducated guess here, definitely not human. Right. Did he read anything about that before…

“Hm… Alright, well, it still doesn’t explain why I feel like I know you?” Her dull eyes stare at him, utterly bored. “I mean, so that’s some kind of magic or?”

She exhales like a normal person, thank god. “That would be one way to put it, yes.” 

She doesn’t add more, so Martin continues, “... And how do you know me..? Is that also magic?”

“It could have been.”

Alright… “Oh?”

She squints her eyes as if mocking him. “Your _friend_ told me about you, so you would not need to give me your name, if you came looking for her.”

Give his name? Give- … 

“And why is that bad?” He asks carefully, trying to ignore the block of ice forming in his guts. He knew _why_ it could be dangerous. It’s why he nearly panicked when J-... When the Archivist said his name, but he didn’t think… 

Not-Sasha smiles toothily again. “It does not hold the same power if someone else gives it to me. After all, it is not theirs to give. There are circumstantial rules of acquisition we must abide by.”

Martin feels cold all over, frozen by the realization. “You stole Sasha’s name.”

“I did not.”

She says nothing more, but continues to chew yet more pieces of brioche, an odd expression passing through her. Was she annoyed?

“Are you-... Are you a-”

She cuts him with a tight little sneer. “Things like me, _the Others_ , we do not bargain to become who we are. We _are_ , and we cannot change our nature, for it is all we have ever known. And it is all we will ever live for… We own nothing but our will to live.” 

She tilts her head a lot more than any human neck should allow, which prompts something to crack horribly. Martin cringes at the sound but she looks surprisingly pleased afterward.

“This world moves around us but it will never touch us, for we are alien to it. _Strangers_ looking in, waiting for the next face to bare, the next mask to steal…”

“You can just say Changeling, you know!” Martin finally snaps, growing tired of this unnerving monologue that didn’t answer his questions.

Not-Sasha actually bares her teeth, Martin thinks they don’t look like they want to fit in an orderly manner in her mouth. “It’s a nice name humans gave to Others like me. It inspires fear.... But my name is Sasha.”

“A name you took away from my friend!”

For some reason, this slow, spreading smile terrifies him more than anything she’s said or done until now. “I did not need to. She came to me of her own free will, and she knew full well what I was.”

Martin resists the urge to cover his mouth as another wave of dread runs through him. “Oh god. Did you ate her?”

Maybe it was a silly question? It looks like she’s about to laugh but no sound comes out, she only shakes her head. “It is bad manners to eat your fellow signatories, even for us, unless it is warranted…” Martin opens his mouth and she motions mechanically at him. “You will let me finish. Your impatience amuses me, but I _am_ running short on time.”

_Me? Impatient? Yeah right-_

But still. Martin keeps his lips shut tight, unhappy as he is. Her impossible smile lowers into something a bit more introspective. More _human_ , he thinks, but perhaps she’s just very good at mimicking that expression. Her eyes make no effort to look remotely human and stare at nothing in particular as she speaks.

“Your friend came to me, foolish perhaps, but bold as humans are wont to be. She did not _confront_ me, call me a monster, a liar, a thief, nor cried for the people I have fooled to see me for what I really am. She came to me fully knowing what I was, and asked me to take her place.” He thinks he sees Not-Sasha smile fondly, but he couldn’t be sure that was the right expression on her face. “She only gave me her name when she told me what she needed from me, and I agreed to her terms. I would take her life, and she would be free of it.”

“But, why?” The Changeling stops moving, again reminding him of an armed trap. Martin pushes on, “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Discussing details of a contract with non signatories is not well-looked upon, but I do not particularly care to keep these particular secrets from you.”

“Wh-Why?”

Not-Sasha leans forward then, her elbows pressing on the table as she moves inhumanely toward him. “Because she did it for you!” She smiles delightfully, her voice vibrating like discordant silver bells. Her body cracks horrifyingly in a horrible, loud-

“SASHA!”

They both pause. Him, a picture of dread, her, a dreadful picture. 

“I TOLD YOU, NO FUNNY BUSINESS UP THERE.” A voice bellows from the bottom of the stairs, making Martin nearly jump out of his skin a second time. “YOU MAKE THE CLIENTS THINK THE BUILDING’S ABOUT TO COLLAPSE.”

The Changeling pauses, then slowly sits back down on her seat. She clears her throat with practiced daintiness. “It’s only funny to me, Quinn! Sorry for the noise!” Her voice returned to the musical ease she had when he met her downstairs. Martin hears a huff and a door closing. 

Not-Sasha grins, quite amused apparently, probably at his expense, and resumes her monologue casually, still speaking in her impression of Sasha.

“She knew you were in danger, but didn’t know how to save you. To save you, she needed knowledge, and to access knowledge, she needed to leave this town, but her family wouldn’t allow her to seek her fortune in times like these. Much, much too risky, no matter how _noble_ your goals are… Plus, she was the second child of four so that's just bad luck all over. So she searched and searched and when no-one could help her, she turned to me, and now Your Friend is not Sasha anymore; I am.”

“I mean, she’s still called Sasha…”

“She is not,” she snaps in clipped words again, almost greedily, elbows digging into the table. “I am. This life is mine and rightfully mine, as per our contract.”

“Wh-”, on second thought, it was probably not very wise to ask a Changeling how to undo its magic, so instead he veered to more useful topics. “So you just took her-…”

“Role.”

“Thank you. Erm. So you just slid into her _role_ and no-one noticed?”

“Oh, no. They know.”

What?

“What??"

She picks at the crumbs on the table, carelessly swiping some over the edge. “Oh, not everyone, no. They recognize me as Sasha, and that is who I am: their daughter, their sister, their coworker, their crush… Even though _what_ I Am is none of those things…” 

She glances around the dorm. Her empty gaze seems to stop at the staircase. “but your friend’s boss, Quinn… They must have brushed with my kins at some point in the past. In what manners, I could not say. When I realized her boss knew what I was from the get-go, I was simply going to do my usual… What did they call it again, _‘campaign of terror’_ and drive them off, possibly turn everyone against them in the process,” she actually laughs at that, bright as silver bells. 

“But no… They told me I could keep _hiding_ for as long as I needed, for as long as I was with them, but I didn’t need to _pretend_ around them, I could just be me, as long as I worked like any other workers here.”

Martin suddenly feels a lump in his throat, shaken by an unexpected emotion he refuses to acknowledge. He has to stay angry, at least until he knows what became of his friend. 

"It must be nice to _belong_ ," he tries to say lightly, but he's not proud of the hint of bitterness in his ruined voice.

Not-Sasha stays quiet for a moment, her eyes not lost as much as absently observing the irony of it all.

“I do not actually know if they _know_. Perhaps they do not quite understand how my kins operate, what is it that we do, and what powers we draw from to survive… Perhaps they do, and they mistakenly apply their human empathy to my existence, but I cannot say. It’s very refreshing. So I have begun to look a little less like your friend over time. Those who have noticed did not mind, and those who would mind did not notice. I have had two very comfortable years living here.”

This somehow managed to shake Martin out of his emotional stupor. “So you’ve been here for 2 years then?”

She nods. “Give or take. Your friend had been searching for some time before she came to me.”

“Did she say how long?”

She tilts her head. “Maybe a few months.”

Some idea of a timeline was beginning to form in Martin’s mind. So maybe he had been… _‘asleep’_ for a few months? 

“Ok. And do you know where she is now?” He forces himself not to waver too much, regardless of how his voice did that for him anyway. “You said she did this for me? Where can I find her?”

Not-Sasha shrugs, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know??”

“Her fate does not matter to me, so long as I get to keep my side of the bargain. All I can tell you is that she is still alive, but her death will not affect me. And mine would not restore what they gave away. She simply walks the world as somebody else, much as I have been my entire life…” She seems to ponder over that and leans over the table again. She doesn’t smile but her eyes finally show an eerie liveliness that’s not quite human. “Surely you wouldn’t take that away from either of us, if we both happily benefit from this arrangement?”

“I mean, no! I mean-”

She switches to ‘Sasha’s voice’, all pleasant smiles and familiarity. “Because I’m really running short on time if I have to get rid of your body. I could probably dispose of you through other means, but I don’t think whatever sank its teeth in you first has left much for anyone else. Besides, your people tend to be kind-of heavy on the stomach anyway. I think Quinn called that empty calories…” 

“Look, Fine! Stop talking about me like that! I just came here to get some answers! I don’t even know why you’ve decided to tell me all this!”

She smiles again. It’s not Sasha’s smile. His heart aches. “I just think it’s the least I can do to thank you. I wouldn’t be here without you, and she wouldn’t have forfeited her life if you hadn’t been desperate enough to forfeit yours, unknowingly or not.”

Well that’s… Martin can’t cry right now. She must be twisting the knife on purpose. He’s not sure from which direction he should look at this grim chain of events, so he’s definitely not going to do that right now.

“Did you get all the answers you were looking for?” She grins again, malicious and a little coy. Oh yeah, she was definitely enjoying his reaction. Martin has had enough of these people.

“Oh I thought you didn’t have much time left,” he sasses unhappily.

“Maybe just enough for one more, as a treat.”

_How generous, right._

“Ok… Well, do you know what happened to Market Chipping?”

She draws her lips down confusedly.

“I mean, something must have happened? It’s not like it used to be… When I walked outside it was just… A lot emptier?”

She gives him a strange look, “And how did that feel?”

Martin frowns. “I mean… Not, great? It doesn’t feel right. It’s like a completely different town…”

She leans a little on her elbows, as if considering. “Mmm… Maybe? I wouldn’t notice if your people-”

“ _Can you please stop? They’re not my people and I don’t know who they are-_ ” 

“-IF the Forsakens have done something to this town… I’ve never bothered with them, not when there’s a lot worse out there for me. The uh-...” she actually drums her fingers impatiently. “I don’t know how human magic works, but the way they do it is pretty stupid and artificial if you asked me. I wouldn’t notice if they’d done something to your precious town, because that type of magic cannot reach me.”

“Right. Glad to see you care about the wellbeing of your home,” Martin hears himself grumble. She actually laughs at his tone, but hums in consideration. 

“Oh it’s only my home now, and it could be worse.”

“Oh yeah?”

She raises from the table, and Martin sighs as he does so as well. “Oh yeah. I’ve heard the Archivist has been running around an awful lot the past few months, hexing and vexing, putting his nose in all sorts of places.” Martin almost trips in the middle of standing up. The Changeling gives him a look of amusement. “I’ve heard he’s got a bone to pick with the local administration, so now they’re sending all their dogs after him. I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.”

“Ah…” Martin awkwardly rights himself. He stares at the untouched loaf of bread on the table. “I didn’t know the police department had dogs?” He finally says lamely.  
She snorts at that. “Of course they do, and you keep that.” she waves stiffly at the loaf. “It’s a day-old anyway, so we can’t really sell it.”

Martin grimaces, but puts the loaf in his shabby messenger bag. “Thanks.”

When he looks up once more, he notices that she’s eyeing the bag intensely, like she was trying to see the messy pattern Martin had gone for. It wasn’t… perfect but he was still pretty proud of it… “Right… Well, thank you for your-...”

Not-Sasha finally snaps out of it, grinning wide. Her teeth and her everything look perfectly normal. “Of course. Come along now, I’ll show you the back exit.”

“What? Why?” He follows her anyway.

“Oh it’s a lot more discreet, you know? You probably don’t wanna catch too much attention with how you look. If you’re not with the Forsakens then you’re probably very very cursed and that’s gonna scare Quinn’s clientele.”

“Right… That’s very thoughtful.” They slowly get down the stairs and another thought occurs to him. “So wait, did your boss expect us to… What did your boss think we could be doing up there??? If they know about you?”

She laughs high and bright. It echoes in the staircase, and it’s not Sasha’s laugh. She doesn’t bother lowering her voice as he had. “Honestly, I’m not entirely sure they know either. I think the uncertainty has become some kind of running gag at this point.” Then she whispers with a morbid delight. “But trust me, cleaning blood and gore is rather unpleasant, which is why I'd rather not deal with the mess myself if I can help it.”

“You know what, that might be the only thing I think I can fully trust you on.” 

“Don’t get too complacent, you can never know what’s behind a mask.”

She laughs again and this time, he can tell that it’s her own haunting laugh, vibrating in many tones much like his own voice.

They open the door down and she leads him to the back exit, which opens to a grey little alley behind the shop. He barely caught a glimpse of the bakery itself but it suddenly dawns on him how tired he feels. Having so much attention directed at him for so long, not even pleasant attention if he was honest, after all this time in isolation has surprisingly worn him down thin and he feels almost eager to leave the building.

Ah right, isn’t that another thing.

“I guess you can’t really tell me where to go next?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Depends what you want?” She leans unnervingly close to his space. Having none of it, Martin steps back. She merely smirks at his reaction. “Are you out seeking your fortune, Martin?”

He suppresses the awful shiver still running through him. “Maybe so. I don’t think I’ve got much choice at this point. I can’t stay here forever.”

“I guess not, but it’s exciting to me.” Martin frowns as he looks at the strange glint animating her lifeless eyes. “Is this the first place you came to when you…” she waves at his everything dismissively. “After whatever happened to you happened?”

He shifts awkwardly under the intense attention. “Yeah?”

She presses a hand over her chest, as if moved by a great emotion. It doesn't reach her face.

“I’m touched, you see. My kins respect the integrity of a traveler's tale above all. You humans may have forgotten, but patterns are primordial to the very nature of magic. We know that all great things come in threes or sixes, and the first encounter of a journey is meant to help you survive the rest of it. I thus think I should give you a parting gift before you go on, as per tradition-

_OH ABSOLUTELY NOT. NOT AGAIN_

Martin hastily takes a step back, he now almost has his back to the brick wall. “You know, I think I’m good, I’ve had enough gifts for a lifetime, I’m really sorry but I can’t accept this!”

She actually looks more put off at this than anything he’d said or done in the past hour. Instead she patiently tilts her head and raises a single, pointy finger.

“An advice, then. Just one. It’s traditional. No gifts.”

Martin thins his lips and refuses to let go of the wall.

“Fine, alright, what is it?”

She beams terrifyingly, but at least this time she doesn’t crowd his space in her excitement.

“Remember what I am, lonely one, and-”

He sees her gaze drawn to the left and something shifts almost savagely on her face as her eyes grow wide.

**”HIDE”**

Martin opens his mouth to reply, but his vision suddenly blurs as a massive shape falls on her. Martin hears the inhuman screech of a thousand furious voices bursting his ears and it’s impossibly matched by another cacophony of distorted growlings. 

Martin screams too, he realizes, covering his ears with both hands as he presses to the wall behind him. He tries to find the shape of Not-Sasha where she was standing just a moment ago, but all he sees are two vicious things, monstrous limbs and dark, hairy flesh and bony teeth and claws, painting vivid red in violent strokes on the gentle cobblestones and the familiar orange bricks. 

Only one of them bleeds, he realizes, but it’s not letting up.

He had to help her. He couldn’t let her die. Oh god… 

Panicked, Martin grabs the first heavy thing he can lift, surprised by his own strength, and slams it over the black thing’s head. It’s enough for what he thinks might be Not-Sasha to swipe a wicked hand over the thing’s throat, which promptly showers more blood on her.

Unfortunately, it hardly phases the thing who finally raises a mighty, grotesque paw and turns to meet Martin’s horrified stare. Its maw looks neither canine nor human. Long yellowed teeth grew from beyond the range of its mouth, tearing off its incarnadine lips to make more space, so large it doesn’t seem like it will allow the creature to close its mouth.

Its bright yellow glare pins him there, and for a wild moment, Martin thinks he’d seen those eyes before.

The thing doesn’t grin, for it has no lips to grin with, but Martin gets the impression that it’s gloating at his terror. Then it speaks to him, and he could not fathom from where the warped voice could possibly come from. 

“ **The Watcher sends his regards.** ”

The words, the voice, petrify Martin on the spot. He can hardly breathe.

_He knows I’m here._

A sickening, squelching sound reaches him through his stupor and Martin sees a set of spindly bone-like spikes impaling the beast through its middle, effectively pinning it there. 

There's that thousand voices scream again and Martin thinks his head just went under water. He can’t even hear his own panic as he shouts.

“SASHA!”

There’s that screech again, grating and still too damn loud, like it's trying to chase him away-

He can’t decipher the words, but his gut is telling him to leave, right now.

He turns to exit the alley, only to see a small gathering of curious and terrified eyes, blocking his escape. 

There’s a brutal scuffle behind him and his heart climbs up his throat as something with huge, impossible claws grabs him. 

He can barely emit the cry locked behind his frozen lips as he’s bodily snatched and pulled backward by a vicious grip. Martin lands violently on the ground- 

His rear falls on what is definitely not cobblestones.

He hears the deafening screams of two monsters tearing each other apart one final time before he sees the sound ( _sees the sound?_ ) of a door closing.

There’s no blood on Martin’s hands, but it _feels_ like they’re covered in it.

<0><0><0>

It’s not quiet, it’s not, but it’s not the bouncing echoes of pain from the alley either. He’s too frozen by the sudden not-quite-stillness to remember to breathe.

“There are more pleasant ways to die, I assure you.” A high warbled voice says. Martin shuts his eyes tightly. 

“You should try breathing for a little while longer, I remember it does wonders for the human brain.”

_Heavens above, he’s had enough of today._

Something shifts in front of him, crouching between his useless legs as it leans closer.

“You are the one called Martin, right?”

_REALLY, REALLY DONE WITH TODAY_

Martin opens his eyes with all his seething fury. The bitter anger of knowing his fear won’t allow him to shove at the thing’s face.

Could that even be considered a face?

A distorted, mangled mask of freckled skin looks down at him. It smiles and the corner of its lips slowly stretches beyond its broken jawline, going way beyond it, possibly to the back of his head.

The teeth, it seems, are quite human. The eyes, however, are unspeakable.

“On second thought, perhaps breathing won't do you any good after all.”

It laughs, high and chime-like and gasping desperately for relief, and its warbled echo vibrates around him. 

The sound of it makes Martin unspeakably sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo, how do you like them apples? I'm having a lot of fun. 
> 
> As I've mentioned, regarding Not-Sasha, I've elected to make the majority of Strangers some variation of Fae folks, or Fae-touched in some manners. Beings fundamentally made out of magic. Although it could be argued that in her case, I was more influenced by Dopplers from The Witcher's fandom... (like the actual doppler lore, not what little we've seen in S1, but I digress. I fucking love Dopplers.) Simply put, The Strangers are very chaotic but they have their own set of firm rules and tradition they abide by. 
> 
> That being said, Strangers and Spirals have always felt very Fair Folk to me... With the difference that Spirals were humans at some point of their lives. They just don't draw from the same source. Take that as you will...
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, I love you all.
> 
> Coming up next: Martin gains an unusual guide.


	6. in which Martin acquires an unusual guide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In pitch dark_   
>  _I go walking in your landscape_   
>  _Broken branches_   
>  _Trip me as I speak_
> 
> _Just cause you feel it_   
>  _Doesn't mean it's there_   
>  _Just cause you feel it_   
>  _Doesn't mean it's there..._
> 
> _Why so green and lonely?_   
>  _Lonely, **lone l y?**_   
>  _Heaven sent you to me_   
>  _To me, **to m e**_   
>  _We are accidents waiting_   
>  _Wai t i n g t o **h a p p e n**_
> 
> \-- Radiohead, "There, There"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aight aight aight so, my work has reopened but only on weekends, which has done interesting things to my "writing" schedule. I'll still try to keep up the weekly goal I've set for myself, but some chapters might be a bit shorter or, if the chapter needs to, might be delayed if they're longer. My work does that thing where they're now forbidding us from carpooling among ourselves but... public transit is ok? God it's so stupid. Anyway;
> 
> Warning for this chapter:
> 
> \- The Spiral-typical dissociation and bullshit  
> \- The Spiral-typical overwhelming sense of everything just not lining up quite right  
> \- Michael-typical "are you uncomfortable yet? Good"  
> \- Stressful chase sequence (?)
> 
> I'm definitely forgetting something. Please let me know if I need to add more warnings.
> 
> Enjoy <3

Martin is nearly distracted enough by this growing sense of sea-sickness to forget the strange thing crouching a few mere inches away from him. It grins a little madly, if that could even be considered a grin. It looks more like a gnarled grimace, a forceful rictus. Martin thinks it appears to be in a state of exalted pain. Its unbearable eyes gleam with colours he’s never seen before and looking at them gives him a striking headache. 

“Did… Where am I? This isn’t Market Chipping…” Martin attempts to crawl away as subtly as possible, though the thing makes no efforts to hide that it very obviously noticed. 

“Hmm, I’m afraid you’re not in the Folding Valley anymore.”

_Well that’s just swell._

Martin gestures uselessly, “My friend Sasha…” 

It leans closer, tilting its head curiously. Only, it continues to turn until the creature's eyes fixate him from where its mouth should be. Martin stares as the thing presses its forehead in the crook of a nightmarish hand, elongated twig-like fingers twitching reflectively. Its eyes crinkle under the pressure. 

“Are you sure that was your friend?” It asks almost idly. However, Martin’s gut feeling knows when he’s being mocked.

… He thinks? He could be wrong. Nothing in the creature’s tone sounds mean-spirited... Or was it-?

Well, the being is obviously trying to goad an answer out of him, much as Not-Sasha had done earlier. Martin is not entirely sure what to make of it. “Of course I know, alright? You just came in and, what, pull me in here- Wherever we are- and all for absolutely no reason? I just need to know she’s ok, alright?”

The thing laughs again, sending another wave of nausea washing over him. An overwhelming tingle runs over his body, like a swarm of needles unable to take flight.

“Well, let’s see. Where shall we start~” It drawls a little dreamily, its too-many-articulations fingers shift mindlessly as it seems to ponder over his words.

“You know what, actually, who _are_ you? Why am I here? Where am I?”

_Why does everything feel so wrong???_

The thing grins and rights its head, only not from where it had originally been turned from. Martin can clearly see the horribly twisted neck hidden beneath a curtain of blond locks.

The unnaturally deformed creature slowly extends its monstrous hand toward him.

“I’m not a who, but you may call me Michael if it makes more sense to you.” The being, Michael, grins at him, literally from ear to ear. “Can I have your name?”

Martin stares at the offered hand in apprehension. The words ring wrong, and he is suddenly reminded of what Not-Sasha had said, not even an hour earlier. His guts would drop under him if he wasn’t already on the floor.

Actually, he thinks the floor might be moving under him, and yet all he sees is perfect stillness.

Inhaling deeply, Martin steels himself and carefully slots his hand in Michael’s grip. “I think you already know my name?”

The blond creature smiles shamelessly. Martin thinks it… He? She? Something else? Nothing?... Martin thinks he looks a little pleased with his answer. Nonetheless, he carefully folds his vicious grip around Martin’s parchment-like hand and shakes it once. Martin is however distracted by the myriads of contradicting sensations pressed into his palm. 

Again, he tries his best to hide his reactions so as to not offend the being… Or perhaps Michael is expecting him to recoil from the touch. In any case, the stretched-out creature carefully lets go of his hand and Martin decides to focus his attention on the thing’s nose… Well, if it could stop drifting to the right…

Which is the only reason why he realizes, with a start, that Michael is staring at him intently, as if answers were written all over his face. 

“What is it?” Martin asks carefully. 

Michael speaks slowly, words wrapped around a mangled smirk. “You’re not quite as I’ve expected.” Before Martin can express his confusion, the creature continues. “As for your other inquiries, you are in the Maze of Many Ways, but a moniker will never fully encapsulate the nature of this place. I've always been partial to ‘It-Is-Not-What-It-Is’ myself.” His lips stretch into a harsh grimace, like he was about to add more before changing his mind. “I was asked to fetch you, as a favour, when you would finally leave your cozy burrow. It seems like I came right in the nick of time, wouldn't you say?”

There are many things Martin wants to say and too little time to address all of them at once. They all seem to slip away from his mind, so he latches onto his immediate feelings. “Then why didn’t you just _‘appear’_ out of nowhere as soon as I'd left the Library? Or did you just do nothing and waited until Sasha was-” Martin covers his mouth. “Oh god, Sasha. Why didn’t you take her too??”

Michael’s painful smile drops slowly, and Martin feels very cold. For a second, the mere sight makes him think of hundreds of aggressively scribbled shapes, edges sharp and forceful enough to tear angry gashes into the paper they’re drawn on. 

“Let’s just say, beings such as the Changeling do not fare well in these corridors, and I am disinclined to allow I-Do-Not-Know-You safe passage for reasons I will not get into. I was only tasked to get you to a safe location and that’s what I intend to do. Now, let’s try to put those legs to work, shall we?”

Gritting his teeth, Martin tries to do just that. However it seems that his body won’t quite cooperate just yet, or perhaps there’s something about this place that won’t allow him to find his balance, or his marbles if he were honest. 

Everything feels surreal, like he’s being pulled in all directions at once, like something was trying to shake his soul out of his body. He nearly falls over, then notices he’s been aptly pulled upright by Michael, who grimaces (is that a grimace or a smirk…) at something on his arm. His claws made long tears in the sleeve of his coat. A testament of their deadliness. Martin is about to tell him not to worry about it, then remembers he ought to feel angry at this whole situation in the first place. 

“So what’s going to happen to her, then? What was that thing that attacked us?” _Why did it have a message from the Watcher for me??_ , he didn’t say. Martin presses his lips tightly as worrisome thoughts gnaw at him. 

Michael doesn’t seem to mind waiting a little longer while Martin attempts to get some feelings back in his legs again. It still distinctly feels like the ground is moving under him. He also notices that the door he originally came through isn’t there anymore, but others have replaced it. Mismatched, different colors and shapes and sizes, alternating with little mirrors or portraits framed along the walls.

“You ask so many questions for a Lonely One.” Michael bares his teeth, maybe it’s a smile. “But I suppose it’s fair to assume the Changeling is most likely dead by now.” 

Ah well, that sure made his legs want to go weak from guilt. First Sasha- _his Friend_ , and now Not-Sasha...

“You don’t know that! They were still fighting when you- When we left!”

“Well,” Michael rolls his eyes to one end of the long corridor, which Martin only realizes now they were standing in. What the- “Hunters are quite relentless. They’re not particularly sharp, but rather thorough. Tell me, do you think this one came for her, or for you?”

He raises a mocking brow at Martin, who would normally have his cheeks burning by now, but nothing comes over him. Everything feels cold. So he lowers his eyes to the strange, vibrating floor and bites his lips.

“If it came for me, then it had no reason to harm her, right? I mean she looked like she was giving as good as it got? Maybe she managed to kill it?”

Michael seems kind of bored with the topic but answers nonetheless, in a disinterested kind of way. “I suppose, admitting that she survived.” He gives him an odd, searching look, and Martin focuses desperately on the creature’s nose. “You really shouldn’t trust Strangers, truly. How do you know she wasn’t going to devour you in the alley?”

“I…” Martin closes his lips tightly, his heart feels riddled with too many doubts to answer that rationally. “Well, how do I know _you_ aren’t going to eat me any second now?”

The creature laughs again, making his stomach do a few backflips. Michael has the decency to help him stay upright until the echoes recede. 

“I suppose that’s fair,” he says in a lilting voice, back to his strange distorted smile. “My engagements aside, I don’t think you would be worth the trouble, not in your current state. That _opaquing_ shawl of loneliness, so lovingly _knitted_ over your shoulders, so tightly _wrapped_ around your oneself, it might just keep you from falling at the seams… If it hasn’t already emptied you out in its own time.” He appears to bare his teeth at Martin, then sways his head the other way. 

_Why is everyone bringing that up?_ Martin huffs and rolls his eyes, which was a mistake. The ceiling is also shifting unpleasantly with more improbable colours. _I mean I’m not FINE but I don’t think I’m… God, I don’t know._

“Which isn’t to say I'm not willing to strike a deal if you came to me with a reasonable bargain.” He tilts his head this way and that way. “Or if my sister is in a good mood, I suppose. She’s the generous one, out of the two of us.”

Martin frowns. So there were more of them… “If she’s the generous one, then what does that make you?”

Michael laughs again, apparently delighted for reasons he was not privy to. Martin nearly bristles. 

“I’m sorry, can you just- I’m sure you can’t help it, but can you- I don’t want to be _sick_ all over your floor!”

The creature shakes his head, which causes his neck to right itself with a sharp whirl. There’s a worrisome lack of bone-cracking sounds involved in the process.

“You should get used to it soon. I admit, this must be quite a shock to you in particular, but your particular misfortune might award you a little more time here than most humans would normally withstand.” He finally lowers his hand, motioning to one end of the corridor with the other. “Do you feel acclimated enough to start walking?”

_No_ , Martin thinks, as his legs take a stubborn lead in that direction anyway. The being says nothing more, but Martin’s determined steps are very easily matched by the sickeningly long strides of his unusual guide. 

Perhaps he should be worried by the obvious lack of doors he sees as they progress further into the Maze. There are no twists or turns yet, not that he noticed, but he doesn’t think he’d seen any for a while. 

The kinder side of Martin feels just a little bad for snapping at Michael, though a careful glance lets him know that the long-limbed creature is merrily smiling as he stares at the way ahead. His strange gait almost gives the impression that he’s hopping on stilts as they move along, but at the same time, he thinks the speed at which he moves doesn’t actually match their current pace.

Martin tries to find answers on the strangely-textured floor, but forming coherent thought has become increasingly more difficult as they progressed. It felt like trying to sweep dust into a pile with a particularly shoddy broom. He knows there’s something he’s forgetting… 

“You said humans can’t stand this place for too long?” Martin says in lieu of an apology. At the moment, the silence might be more intolerable than his own muddled feelings.

The blond hums in agreement, though he doesn’t elaborate. Martin resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Well? What happens to them?”

Martin thinks he sees him lick his lips, but he could be mistaken. The creature’s smile only broadens. “Are you sure you want to know?”

Uh. “I mean, maybe? Should I be worried? I imagine you would just tell me if I needed to be worried?”

It laughs again, Martin doesn’t even bother restraining his groan this time, but his footing only faltered slightly, so he’ll take that as a win. 

“You would imagine.” The creature articulates with a new acetic clearness that wasn’t there earlier. “Of course you should be worried. You wouldn’t want to _lose yourself_ in The Maze, don’t you?” 

“Of course not, but you’re dodging the question.”

“And you’re not _listening_ properly. But perhaps that is a trait you inherited from the Forsakens…”

“I’m not- I’m listening just _fine_. You’re just trying to distract me.”

The thing grins shamelessly. “Maybe so.”

Fine. _Fine then._ If he didn’t want to talk about it, Martin could try something close enough. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of something like you before. What are you supposed to be?”

Michael is still grinning, like a scarecrow with an approximation of a face. “I am something, yes.” Martin thinks it’s all he’s going to say, then he adds. “I am Michael, but I am also the Maze, and the Maze is… Entropy.” He looks over at Martin for a sign of recognition, but obviously finds none.

“... So what are you supposed to be?”

“There’s no name for what we are, though magic-users, like yourself, like to call us Distortions.”

“I’m not- I’m not a magic-user...”

Michael gives him a strange look. Which said a lot, considering he was already very strange-looking.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I know I’ve never, you know _done_ magic before?”

Michael grins unkindly. “Now that is amusing. You’ve told yourself _lies_ for so long, you've actually made them reality.”

Martin feels like protesting, but not even old instincts can change easily, even after being terribly cursed by an evil maybe-wizard. Self-consciousness makes him bite his tongue as the blond continues on. 

“Denizens of the Twisting Deceit belong to its magic the same way a tree’s roots merge into the intricate network binding them to their forest… Though I suppose, that comparison is also faulty. The Maze knows-”

“Is that why your hands are like that?”

Michael turns a nearly static glance toward him. Martin’s brain only caught two seconds too late what he’d just said. It dawns on him how rude that was of him, but somehow… Martin can’t find it in itself to feel mortified over his lack of tact.

“I mean,” he adds after a few seconds of silence. “They just remind me of- You know in winter, how trees lose all of their leaves and- their branches look like fingers stretched out toward the empty white sky?”

_Like hungry, demanding hands, beseeching for mercy and so poetically lonely-_

Somehow that jarring thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth. It riles him up enough to bring him back with a lurching jolt. 

“Almost got lost there, didn’t you?”

Martin looks at the creature, who seems quite amused in its own gnarly way. At least he doesn’t _seem_ upset with his probably inappropriate question… Michael sighs deeply, though the quiver it produces over his disproportionate body looks a little unnerving.

“Thoughts are dangerous things.” He says again, and Martin thinks it sounds oddly clear again, wan and porous as bare bones. “They're the fastest way to get yourself led astray here. But, I suppose, so are rational thoughts.”

Martin senses the blurry shape of the answer he was looking for earlier. “So what happens when you get lost?”

“All sorts of things.” His tall neck suddenly snaps at an odd angle. “If you’re lucky, you simply grow leaves and roots.”

Leaves and roots? Oh! Oh alright, Martin could work with that.

“And if you’re not lucky?”

There is no answer. Martin only sees the scribbled outline of Michael from the corner of his eyes but he doesn’t get the impression that he’s moving anymore. Martin keeps walking ahead and still the sound of Michael’s inhuman gait reaches his ears from beside him. 

After what feels like hours of silence, Michael’s voice floats to him again, like a breathless whisper.

“Darjeeling.”

Martin almost turns his head, but finds that he cannot. Long, spindly fingers rest on top of his hair, keeping his eyes on the way ahead.

“Darjeeling was Michael’s favourite blend of tea from his homeland. He always had the belief that how one enjoyed their tea revealed a lot about them…” Martin hears a rasp that might be a chuckle or a sigh. “Sometimes, he tries to picture himself brewing a cup, just like he used to, despite knowing that the mere memory of its flavour will only leave ashes in what used to be his mouth. All he can taste now is the Maze’s ambrosia, and it is _not_ what it _is_.” He ends with the sound of a rattling hiss. Martin thinks he feels his claws tightening ever so slightly.

“Alright, ok, hey…” Martin’s guts churn as he instinctively attempts to smooth down the situation. “I get it. I’m sorry things have turned out so horribly for you.”

Martin shivers as he feels a tepid breath right above his ear. “ _Liar._ ”

Reacting on instincts, Martin lunges himself away from the grip, barely managing not to sprawl himself on the floor.

When he turns to look, he sees nothing behind him. He turns and turns and no-one besides him standing in the corridor. 

“You must be _Quick_ , Lonely One. We really shouldn’t delay, not just for your sake.” Michael’s slurried drawl comes from beside him. Martin sees nothing until he realizes the floor and the walls have changed colours and shapes and… texture? It feels sticky under his shoes. 

Raising his eyes to the portraits and the mirrors reveals that they are now all inhabited but various versions of Michael’s twisted body in different positions. One of them, the one from which his voice last came from, has him idly leaning over its frame. His hair cascades over the frame and pools down on the floor in swirling circles and squares. “Your _friend_ is duly awaiting your arrival.”

… THAT’S what was missing!

“You know,” Martin steels himself nervously, heart in his throat. “I don’t think you’ve said anything about who that benefactor might be. Who are they?”

Martin wants to move past this part of the corridor, but he’s caught with the thought of many Michaels emerging from the frames while he has his back turned to them.

The first frame shows him motioning as if giving the question some deeper consideration.

Another one answers instead. “A friendly kind of friend.”

Martin turns to face its mocking grin. “That doesn’t answer my question!”

Another one behind him replies with a twirling laugh, “Well only slightly deadly. So a deadly kind of friend.”

Martin inhales deeply and braces himself, pretending to ignore the small blooms of hope in his chest. “Is it the Archivist?”

For a gut-wrenching second, everything suddenly goes very, very still in the hallway. 

Then everything comes pouring down. Everything feels too much. Every wave of sensation falls on him at once as he thinks he hears the unrestrained laughter of what might be Michael. Disbelieving gasps and howls shake the entire corridor so much so, some of the frames fall and shatter on the ground. 

“You Think! You think an _Archivist_ would save you? You think they would do _anything_ but sit back and enjoy the suffering they bear witness to? As they rip it out of what you've become under their cold, uncaring eyes?”

“Fine then!” Martin yells, clutching his hands over both of his ears. “Who sent you then??”

The ground shakes harder as Michael gasps his reply hysterically. “It seems you’ve collected many many-eyed friends, it seems! It seems, and all of it _for naught!_ ”

Many eyes… _MANY EYES!_

“NO!!” 

Martin turns tail, refusing to look behind him as he leaves the frames and the mirrors and the spiraling discordance of laughters chasing after him with their sickening echoes.

His ears are pounding when he finally slows down. He’s never been the most athletic lad back in his school days, quite the opposite actually, but he’s not sure how long he’s been running for, turning corners after corners, looking for a door. The echoes have turned into a constant hum in his ears, but nothing. No doors, no more frames, just long empty corridors leading onward. The colour around him is a strange layered magenta and yellow that hurts his teeth. He knows that Michael must still be around, somehow… 

Caught in a doubt, Martin’s instincts drag his eyes to the ceiling, and exhales. Nothing there. When the vertigo of staring at unprobable shapes subsides, he continues onward.

Michael was right, however. Martin had noticed, back at the Library, how easily it had become to lose himself in thoughts and come back from his daydreams completely drained as he forcefully pulled away from them. It's not the same as what the Maze instills in him, but he resolves to look for a door and not think of much else until he does so… 

Which, after a few hours of hiding around corners, hearing lumbering steps, and dearly praying for the creature to move on without noticing him, may have been how he’d eventually lowered his guard.

Because Martin didn’t hear the steps, the gasps, the soft lilting voice calling after him as he moved deeper in the labyrinth of so-called many ways, hours of constant vigilance has left him fatigued enough to forget to check before rounding yet one more corner.

Which is how he comes face to face with a very still and towering abomination of twisted and stretched humanoid, looming over him as it grins with its head-splitting smile.

“Greetings, Lonely One.”

Martin screams as he feels its claws easily wrapping around him, growing longer, encircling him like snakes, or vines, and _squeezing_ … 

“You could do _so much_ better, Sad, Foolish man. Betrayed and abandoned. What could they possibly _see_ in you…”

Martin’s face feels like frost and fire all at once. His nails bite in his tightening fists and a block of ice grows where his heart should be.

“FINE," he yells at its face, seized with terror and hurt. " **stop looking at me then! Why don’t you _leave me ALONE!_** ”

He’s surprised by the strange echoing that follows his words. It’s not the same resounding vibration he’s been hearing for hours now. His body suddenly grows colder and colder. A frisson of pinpricks washes over his brain. It’s…

Martin is suddenly dropped on the ground. 

The first thing he sees are the long, crooked legs of Michael. He doesn’t dare make a sound as he carefully looks up to find the creature frowning at where he was being entrapped just a moment ago. 

He brings a hand to cover his mouth and realizes with a mute surprise that he cannot see it anymore. A quick inspection reveals that the rest of his body has also disappeared, much like when he’d first awoken.

It’s when he finally looks up that he sees it; an old moldy green and grey frame, standing askew like rough, uneven stones piled atop one another, just at the end of the corridor Michael had ambushed him in.

“Very unwise, that little trick is going to cost you much if you keep it up here for too long. You’ll be of no use to your dear friend if you accelerate the rate of your own unraveling.”

Michael takes a few steps further, seemingly unable to see him. 

Martin looks at the door, looks at Michael, looks at the door, 

Secures his bag as quietly as he can under his arm.

_Don't look over here don't look don't-_

Michael’s head jerks minutely, like a predator about to strike.

Martin takes the biggest breath he’s ever taken in his life, which fills his lungs with frost misty and the dampness of green hills,

And takes off.

_LEAVE ME ALONE DON'T LOOK DON'T LOOK **FUCK OFF-**_

His heart is pounding too loud in his ears to notice if the monster has taken off right after him, but he hears an ear-splitting scream as he extends his hand to push at the door.

The door does not bulge as he collapses against it.

The long strides are right upon him. Martin grits his teeth and takes a step back.

“COME ON, OPEN! **OPEN, PLEASE** ,” Martin rams his shoulder in the door desperately, acutely aware of Michael. He’s right behind him he’s right-

Martin nearly feels the claws closing around him when he suddenly falls forward. 

What he falls on is very damp and smells of wet dirt. He has just enough wits to stagger upright, his hands scuffling against grass and rocks as he turns and stares at the stone portal he fell from, standing atop a larger collection of rough stones. There is no door to speak of, but the sight of it makes Martin stumble away from its sight as quickly as possible. He barely notices the spiraling patterns carved into the stones and deeply etched in the ground surrounding the site. He has just enough time to hide behind a larger monolith, both hands covering his mouth and eyes shut tight, before he hears Michael’s voice float back to him.

“I’ll be _seeing_ you, Martin.” He promises, raising his voice to be heard. Martin is too panicked to soundly determine which tone that’s meant to be, but its lilt falls apart and deteriorates differently outside of its domain. “The Maze of Many Ways always knows which doors you take.”

He laughs again, but the echoes seem so much more far away than they did within the labyrinth. 

When he hears nothing else for a few more minutes, Martin lets go of his tight clasp over his mouth. His hands are shaking as he leans against the rock with a drained sigh. Or a sob. Or-

He quickly wipes helpless tears off of his face, resolving to at least take in his surroundings before he’d allow himself a moment to cool down from all the horrible things he’s been through today.

The air around him is both thick and wispy, roaming airily over green hills of stones and soft grass. It’s beautiful and lusciously verdant on sunny days, he knows. In this weather, it can be deceptively dangerous. The mist hides oily puddles of swampy quicksands from blind travelers, often mistaking them for patches of dirt. Martin lost a pair a shoes in one of them when he was younger-

… He is back in the Northern hills where he grew up. Easily a good few days away from Market Chipping.

And he's been left, as wished, utterly alone by his pursuers… 

Martin laughs shakily, and lets himself fall apart. Just for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty-o. Sooo, the castle is real close, I promise. But not quite yet. I've laid awake thinking about the next chapter. I'm looking forward to it. haven't read the House of Many Ways yet but like, I'll see when/if I get there. 
> 
> So... Michael Michael Michael... Ngl, The Spiral makes me think about Entropy a lot in general, which is horrifying to me. So it got me thinking 'What kind of closed system slowly pulls you apart and slowly integrates you as its own ideal version of yourself?' well. That sure sounds like your typical "I got lost in the Fae-realm and now I'm forever bound to it and I can't leave" bullshit to me! with added transdimensional elements for the sake of this story as well. 
> 
> ... if you like that kind of "Entropy" horror, I recommend reading/listening to the [SCP-3001 file](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WGL3-EY4BII) ... it's both very funny and full of slow, dismaying horror. (and this version kept all the nice little gorey sound effects so, tw: squelching sounds a-plenty!)
> 
> Anyhow, I do love the tragedy of Michael's story. Also good to note that I'm a Gertrude stan, but you know, Michael has fair reasons to be very upset just thinking about her. Martin just couldn't know he had _baggage_... We'll see how that pans out later on~ 👁️👁️
> 
> Good lord, I should stop rambling, I hope you guys have enjoyed this story so far. Please let me know if you have, your comments genuinely make my heart sing. 
> 
> As always, Thank you for reading, I love you all.
> 
> Next Chapter: Kindness can't change what you are, but it shapes the world around you. For better or for worse.


	7. in which Martin is lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Serious thought always leads to being lost in thought because it takes you down unfamiliar paths._
> 
> – Michael Lipsey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, so my work is making me work despite the fact that 3 of my coworkers have been tested positive in just the last week, and that's nothing _we've_ been informed of by the direction, I've just been told thanks to my pissed off team manager. Anyway, I'm angry and stressed and I somehow managed to stick to my personal deadline out of sheer spite and anxiety and coffee. I'm being assigned more hours next week so... Just to say, I deeply appreciate all of your comments, even if I'm currently too burnt out to answer them with my usual levity. 
> 
> I love and appreciate all of you for reading this. You're wonderful.
> 
> (And, thank god, just one more chapter...)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter
> 
> \- Martin's usual messed up self-esteem  
> \- Lonely-typical depression and ideations  
> \- (near but not quite) animal death (x2)  
> \- Buried-typical horror and distress  
> \- Arachnophobia / spiders (it's very sudden and unexpected, so tell me if I need to tune up my warnings)  
> \- Animal attack  
> \- Grief
> 
> Enjoy <3

Martin’s feet come to a stop as he reaches yet another plateau. At least he’s pretty sure it’s some kind of elevation. His progression has gone upward for a while and only now does it finally flattens enough that he can sit down on a conveniently smooth rock and take a moment to decide where he should go next.

Alright, maybe he’s a little lost. It has been hard to tell which direction he had taken, with such a heavy curtain of damp mist floating around this part of the Upper Valley. He vaguely remembers it usually looking like that in late Autumn or in Spring… So that wasn’t great news to him. So sure he went uphill, figuring that a vantage view might help him decipher the way onward, but the plume of fog twirls in his wake wherever he goes… 

Truth be told, he isn’t sure where he is going, only that he has to _keep_ going, least he finds himself unable to move again. Still, he has the strangest certainty that whatever is causing this climate isn’t entirely natural. It never seemed so overwhelmingly dense when he was younger…

Did magic have anything to do with it? After everything he’s seen (and everything he’s _yet_ to see), he thinks it could be a possibility. Although, some people used to say, even back when he was younger, that some great dread had cursed these hills a long, long time ago. Over time, Martin simply assumed this was just their way to rationalize the disappearances of people at this time of the year.

Well… Maybe there was something more to it than he thought. 

In any case, Martin was a bit worried about his pace, hindered by the lack of visibility, and threatened even more by the declining sun, soon to be sinking behind the hills. 

Fortunately, he’s a good distance away from where he had been spat out from the Maze. To his surprise, as he sits to contemplate his next course of action, he doesn’t feel fatigued or sore from his countless hours of exertions. He would imagine that spending months… _years_ mostly sitting at his desk for hours would occasion some significant soreness at this point. 

But no, there’s… nothing. Maybe a worrisome lack of anything? Maybe a little drained? He can’t quite feel his limbs. His skin still slightly buzzes from his aborted trip through the labyrinth of doors… 

Uh.

Martin thinks of what happened to him today… Or was it several days? It couldn’t have been _that_ long… 

Right, he should probably try to gather his thoughts a bit, before diving back in the damp stillness currently lapping at his feet.

So… What does he know? 

Well. Firstly, he was cursed, or under some kind of magic, at least according to Not-Sasha. That probably checks out, from what he had heard of the Watcher… 

Secondly, said Watcher knows he’s awake and has well proven that he’s ready to act on his promise to find him if he doesn’t… “Disappear”? Where is he supposed to hide?

… Martin thins his lips. He knows the answer is obvious, just peeking at the corner of his mind, but he’s not really happy about it. He moves on to the next point, staring at his visible hands. Tightening them to feel the faint crinkling of parchment-like skin brush unpleasantly against itself. 

Right.

Thirdly, he caused all of this. There’s no beating around the bushes with this one. First he caused his own sorry state and, whatever awful fate befell both Sasha and Not-Sasha happened all because of him. 

The memory of the Archivist telling him a _friend_ had been looking for him hits him like a blow to the heart, and it's only worsened by the awful truth Not-Sasha had revealed to him. And, god, what happened to Not-Sasha… Martin clasps his hands and refuses to bury his face in them. This was all his fault… 

Ok, right. He breathes in deeply. They might both be alive. He had to stay positive. Right. 

… Would he even know what his Sasha looked like, if he came face to face with her? Would she even know who he is, if he barely looks like a paper-version of himself?

What else does he know? 

Right, thinking about what happened in the Maze… So he could turn invisible now? Or just go unseen? He feels a little sick just thinking about how that discovery felt when he woke up. He’s very reluctant to test that new skill right now, and it feels ill-advised in this weather. Which brings him to the next point…

He’s none too happy over everyone proclaiming his affiliation with those so-called _Forsakens_. Some magic-users who seem to make the world… Worse. Now, Martin’s never learned magic, and to his knowledge, it involved a lot of diagrams and pacts and a lot of research… he couldn’t _possibly_ be one of them? That didn’t make any sense.

Martin thinks about what J-... What the Archivist _said_ again, about the Library. That it was an.. Entity of its own? Something like that? Maybe something happened while he was “asleep”. He thinks that whatever had been there before his life truly fell apart was most definitely not constricting his chest anymore when he left. The place had felt… plain, somehow. Maybe that might have been the Watcher’s doing… Oh and he’s definitely not feeling charitable enough to thank the bastard for _either_ of his poisoned gifts.

Still… he doesn’t quite _feel_ different… but a part of him mutters snidely that maybe he’s been hollowed out for so long, he wouldn’t have noticed. But that doesn’t sound RIGHT either? Martin bats at the fog curling around his calves. Would someone “empty” feel grief or anger or fear? Martin’s gone through a whole range of overwhelming emotions in just a few-... whatever, encounters! He couldn’t be one of those monsters, or anything remotely like the way Peter had looked the night his life went from not great to really bad. God, why HAD Peter looked so… Sullen? Did he really just _bet_ him over, like a cheap festival ticket? Does Martin appear to others as apathetic and hollow as Peter had that night? 

Actually, truth be told, he’d really rather not think about any Lukases right now. He’s had enough of them, probably for a lifetime. It might also explain why J-… Why the Archivist had held such disdain and distrust for the Lukases as a whole.

Martin self-depreciative chuckles at the fact that he’s going to run out of things to mull over if every topic upsets him so much. Speaking of upset… 

… Why had Michael reacted like that? Had Martin done something to upset him? Had he broken some kind of unspoken magic rule he didn’t know about?? Well, maybe it WAS for the best, if he had actually been leading him to his doom, but… 

Actually, the more he tries to gather his memories of the travel between Market Chipping and here, the harder it feels to patchwork together their conversations. Maybe that was an effect of the Maze on people? 

_Come now Martin,_ he thinks. _You shouldn’t feel sorry for him, he WAS going to deliver you to the Watcher… Which also doesn’t make sense at all. Maybe Michael just doesn’t MAKE any sense at all…_

Still it… hurts. Martin sits at the top of a misty hill of grey and emerald, and he’s just hurting all over. Nothing _physical_ just this overwhelming unease.

Lastly, Martin thinks about the Archivist, and his heart aches for a whole other reason.

_Why hadn’t he come to find him?_

He was told the man had been running all over town for a while. He could have… Couldn’t he have… 

Martin closes his eyes. It wasn’t something he could bear to think of right now. Maybe Michael’s hatred for Archivists (Was there more than one?) was actually justified… But he had… _Jon_ wasn’t like . Martin knew it just couldn’t be. He’s given him a- _OH\_

Martin’s hands suddenly come alive as he pats his pockets in a frenzy, trying to feel for the lighter Jon had given him. He’s almost overcome by the dread that he had left it his is other pair of grimy pants when-

Against all odds, and frankly no recollection of putting it there, Martin finds the strange little lighter in his breast pocket.

The fog has risen again, reaching his arms. Soon, Martin knows that it would only keep rising, higher and higher… 

“Well, he did say it’s supposed to help find your way if you’re lost, and I'm pretty sure I’m lost… I suppose it’s worth a shot?”  
Martin inhales the dampness around him and tries to flick the lighter.

Tries again, a second time. 

A third-

His lips are pressed tightly as he has to process the realization that this will not help him, at all. That Jon’s gift is usele-… 

Martin exhales all the sticky air from his lungs. 

It wasn’t _useless_. A gift isn’t useless if it means something to you, even if it just won’t work for him. Maybe it has something to do with the general humidity around him? It worked just fine when he was in the Library. Or- Maybe it ran out of fuel?

Would a magical lighter require fuel?

… Was it even _magical_ in nature???

Martin pockets the lighter again, and makes his slow progression downhill. 

_It’s going to be fine as long as I keep moving,_ he tells himself. _That’s what heroes do when they go through hardships, they keep pushing forward, don’t they?_

Now, Martin doesn’t fancy himself a hero, but remaining a helpless victim any longer leaves an awful taste in his mouth.

Things might turn out alright. He found a fairly sturdy rod and it's been working just fine as a walking stick. His pace is still excruciatingly slow, but so far it seems like he’s made some decent progress. Why, maybe that thick mist is some sort of blessing. If he’s lost here, who’s to say the Watcher could even find him in all this obscuring dampness?

Well, alright. Maybe there is a bit of wistful thinking in all of that. A lot.

The setting sun turns the mist into clouds of orange and grey around him, the mud beneath his feet announces his arrival to any unfortunate traveler likewise lost in this damn pea soup. Martin sharply remembers that this is the worst possible weather to travel by night. He would have to stop soon, and he has no idea what kind of shelter he can find to wait the night over. 

It’s just as he comes down the hill that Martin hears it.

Water sloshing faintly in the nearby distance. It sounds like there’s something in it. His doubts are confirmed when he hears a distressed dog-like yelp. Heart in his throat for the poor thing, Martin braces himself and goes to investigate.

Is it wise? Probably not, but it might be the first living thing he’s encountered since he fell out of the Maze and Martin feels like he _needs_ to see it. Besides, the thought of an animal suffering really doesn’t sit well with him.

Now, maybe he had expected a dog, or some _normal_ canine at least.

What he finds, neck deep in a pool of oily swamp water, front legs paddling furiously at the quicksand water in hopes of gaining any purchase to lift itself out of the mud, is something not so dissimilar to what had attacked Not-Sasha.

Which is to say, Martin shouts and falls, hastily crawling away from the pitiful monster slowly drowning in its soon-to-be coffin of wet dirt. 

Martin, to his shame and fascinated horror, takes the opportunity to look at the canine monster more closely. It hardly noticed him, what with all the mud falling in its eyes… 

Oh god, what was he doing… 

The wolf-like creature is definitely very big and hairy, from what he could tell across the fog. Its long teeth are exposed in a horrible way, though perhaps less so than the other one’s had been. Martin has no doubt that it could easily maul him if it wasn’t slowly sinking to its death.

And Martin is just over there, watching it, just like Peter had watched him-

Right then, it makes a truly pitiful sound, and Martin’s heart squeezes in his chest. 

_I can’t let this happen, it’s going to die!_

No wait, that’s ridiculous. It could be looking for HIM too, for all he knows. Helping it was just asking for yet another misfortune. Lots of monsters made sounds like that, probably to attract their prey. He’s pretty sure he read that somewhere. Being Brave without thinking would only get him killed.

The thing’s legs shift helplessly in the heavy water, it misses with a pathetic splash, and they grow more and more sluggish. Across the fog, Martin sees its head suddenly slips a little lower and he cannot stand to be its silent witness any longer.

_You’ve been careful for too long, Martin Blackwood, and look where it got you. Trouble will find you, no matter what you do. Just be brave, dammit!_  
Thinking quickly, he pulls off his bag and wraps its satchel around his walking stick. It won’t be particularly easy to throw, with such a limited range, but if he could throw it just right… If it could just hold onto it… 

He steels himself, and walks as close as he dares over the deceiving grounds, just shy from falling in himself, 

and throws the rod as far as it will go, holding fast onto it, with both hands of the satchel and hoping to all the stars that it works.

The wolf almost goes under, now blinded by the sinking mud. 

“Just hold on, _come on_ ” He shouts, feeling his heart in his throat at the sight of this slow creature’s death.

Just as he was about to lose hope, the creature finally bites down on the rod. Its jaw locks onto it desperately and holds on for dear life as it gasps through clenched teeth.

Martin’s chest jumps with hope. He’s acutely aware of the risks of falling down as well if he isn’t careful, so he cautiously braces himself as steadily as he can, and _pulls_.

At first, the entrapped wolf barely budges. The creature seems so weak it can barely flap its paws anymore. Martin repositions his feet on the ground and pulls again. He sees it continue to paddle weakly as they both manage to bring it closer to the edges of the death trap. And after what feels like hours of pulling and shouting for it to keep holding on, the big canine’s paws come into contact with firm ground. Emboldened by the instinctive prospects of escaping death, the wolf musters all of its remaining strength to crawl away from the murky embrace.

Martin’s arms are shaking, still numb and yet, now he finally feels the familiar ache of tired muscles. Hysterically, that unexpected achievement makes a proud, disbelieving smile bloom on his face. He can practically hear his paper skin crinkle. 

The monstrous wolf remains motionless, and for a second Martin fears it might attack him, before it doubles over violently, hacking awfully as it tries to clear off what remnants of dirt it might have swallowed in its struggle to stay afloat. 

Martin remains motionless until its spams peters out. Then, indulgently, he flops down on the ground as well, and the creature does not threaten him either, or maybe it’s simply too weak to move just yet… 

It has let go of Martin’s rod, so he gathers himself and his belongings, clutching them to him as he tries to think of what could possibly come next.  
What now? 

He goes to move and the creature snarls at him, as if only now noticing him. A very impressive snarl considering it looks both drowned and buried at the same time, what with all the wet dirt and mud caking its fur. 

Martin raises both of his hands soothingly. “Hey, please don’t maul me, I’m not here to hurt you.” he gestures at his bag, “I have some water. If you want some, you can have it?”

That would normally be a pretty bad idea on a hike, but Martin had to come to term with the bewildering fact that he hadn’t felt hungry or thirsty since… Since he woke up, really.

“I also have a loaf of bread. Although, you probably shouldn’t eat just yet, at least until your stomach recovers a bit?”

God, what was he doing? Here he is talking to things that couldn’t answer him back… Ok, no, the one who attacked Not-Sasha _could_ talk, so maybe it could understand him and this wasn’t just him talking to animals and inanimate objects, like the silly man he used to be… 

The wolf-thing huffs and growls threateningly, albeit not as convincingly as Martin thinks it wanted to be, but doesn’t move just yet. He sees its intelligent eyes looking at him warily. It seems likely it doesn’t see him as a threat, so… well, alright.

“... Hm, look. It’s going to be dark soon. So I’m gonna look around to see if I can make-” Oh gosh, any wood would probably either be too green or too damp to make a decent fire…” I’m gonna try to make it a little better, alright?” Martin stands up, one hand clutching at his bag. “It’s going to be ok, we’re **both** going to be ok, yeah?”

The wolf’s head suddenly jerks upward, its eyes bright and intense locking on him with a predatory stillness.

Martin resists the urge to take a nervous step back. “I’m just going to find some firewood, I- I promise I-”

The wolf jerks on all four, all teeth bare as it growls like a storm of unadulterated bloodlust. All of its earlier distress is gone.

It jumps toward him. He barely has a chance to move before its teeth close around his makeshift bag, pulling on it violently as it tries to tear it apart with brusque head jerks. Martin instinctively grabs the other side, confused and terrified, and pulls on his end as he tries to understand what was even remotely going on.

“What are you- No! Let go!!”

It growls louder, rattling Martin at his core. A glimpse of its eyes tells him there’s none of that previous awareness he saw just a moment earlier. His harried brain becomes aware that the bag holds everything he owns, everything that has any significance to him.

It’s all he has left of who he was.

“NO!”

An awful tearing sound rips through the air between them.

And something dark comes pouring out of the tear, unbelievably fast, as if with a will of its own.

To his horror, Martin sees a swarm of spiders escaping the hole in the fabric, going everywhere, getting everywhere. On him, on the ground, on his clothes, and it just keeps _spreading-_

Martin yells and throws down the bag, just as he hears the canine monster cry out, barking furiously and growling, thrashing wildly as it tries to throw off in vain a hoard of scuttling black arachnids running over its entire body. 

Martin is too stunned to move as the monster falls to the ground, he quickly sees it bound fast by silk-like threads.

“What the _HELL!_ ”

He rushes over unthinkingly, kneeling down hard before the mess of wolf and dirt and web and spiders in front of him. Martin bats off as many as he can but it hardly does more than get his hands covered in half-dried mud. The creature’s legs thrashes uselessly, much like it had earlier, and yelps a high cry of anger and distress. Before he even has the time to blink, the beast is covered entirely with silvery films, and nothing he doesn’t seem to help.

_Not like this!!!_

Martin clutches at his own hair. This is all his fault.

_That’s just his life now!_

“Just make it **STOP**!”

The last word rings in his ears like the blast of a cannon. When he comes back to his senses, he catches the scuttling motions of the spiders, but they’re… going away.

They’re going away… 

Martin breathes hard, and after his bewildered stupor subsists, he notices that the entrapped wolf isn’t moving anymore.

“NO!” He grabs at the sticky web covering the beast and practically claws at it in his hurry to get it off. He feels his cheeks grow damp as he begs to anything that might be listening. “NO NO NO, _please_ be okay, I’m so sorry, I’m so-”

As he tears off a particularly large piece of silk binding, the monster springs to life, thrashing erratically. It almost bites off his hand as it lunges toward him and pin him down, inching its maw closer to his face. Martin stares up at the creature, seeing it filled with primal anger and fear.

Martin lays motionless as it looms over him, almost unable to see it as tears blurries his vision. _This is… This is it,_ he thinks with a wet gasp. 

The creature growls, opening its teethful mouth slightly as it inches closer.

“I’m so sorry…” Martin nearly whispers, forcing his eyes to stay open as he stares at his impending death.

Something shifts, just slightly. The monster’s teeth are still bared at him, but something changes in its eyes. Something wild and scared and almost human.  
It roars (Roar? That’s a new sound, his useless brain provides) one last terrifying threat before suddenly taking off. Off into the wall of swirling fog, parting just enough for it to make its escape. Away from his accursed self and his unwanted kindness and his bag full of spiders-

_WHY_ spiders, of all things??? In his bag??? 

Martin lays there for longer than he probably should, if he was honest. The sky through the veil looks dark and deep. He cannot see anything, nor stars, nor moon, or even any falling object burning brightly through the night.

He’s aware that it’s probably very cold now. A wan laugh passes his lips.

“What made me think I wanted life to be interesting? I’m-” he tries to say the word ‘cursed’ and his lips clam shut abruptly, minutely distracting him from his self-pity. He slowly puts a hand over his mouth and it comes unbidden slowly. He stays still as his mind circles endlessly over what has become his life. With a sigh, he tries again. “So others can see it, but I can’t even talk about it?” He asks with helpless outrage at the nothing around him. As expected, he’s met with no answer, just more fog closing in. He can’t even bother to chase it away as it coils around him almost protectively. “I’m not cut out for this.”

He slowly sits up, tired and disheartened. All he sees are the vaporous folds of water wrapping around him, almost comforting, but a part of him knows they’re taking away what little warmth he has left. He doesn’t try to bat them off.

“What has caring ever done for me, but made me the perfect piecemeal for awful things like you?” He asks at the nothing. Nothing says nothing, but his heart feels like it's made of ice, or lead. His eyes are heavy, yet he refuses to shut them.

“Yeah, I know you don’t care…” 

_Maybe I shouldn’t either_

Finally, he closes his eyes as he feels the stillness permeate him to the bones. He breathes deeply and opens his eyes slowly, staring down at his hands. 

He finds nothing there. He is staring at nothing. 

He’s truly nothing now.

His own voice echoes to him, it feels like ages ago.

_I’m no-one that matters and I matter to no-one._

He huffs sofly. He idly thinks maybe he brought this upon himself, yet one more thing to add to his list. 

But slowly, softly, that thought shifts something within the numbing ocean of his heart.

His fingers mindlessly trace over a rectangular shape over his heart. They dig it out, and bring it close enough for him to see it. He cannot seem to connect the object to its meaning.

His cold fingers seem to know more than he does, and they move of their own volition, clicking the little red square and gear together.  
A small, valiant flame flickers on.

<0><0><0>

To say he had grown frustrated over the past few months would have been quite the understatement, but the two last weeks in particular had seen him reach a level of aggravation he could only recall experiencing in his early university days.

Life had been very different, back then. His worries seemed almost benign compared to what lays on his shoulders now. And yet, it was where all of his troubles had begun.

A selfish part of him wouldn’t change a single thing. The more… human part of him was weighed down by his guilty conscience. And as hefty as this burden has come to be, he was even more unwilling to let go of it.

Still, the night had not been fruitful. He’s hardly gained any new insight on his ongoing investigation, and the local authorities have become more and more familiar with his usual tricks to escape them. Yes of course, he had many, but he favoured those that didn’t… That didn’t _hurt_ anyone.

He sighs sharply, removing his cracked glasses and pinching his nose, willing his headache to go away.

The streets were empty now, unsettlingly so one might think, as they had grown to be through the last few months. This town was doomed to vanish into nothingness and there was _nothing he could do about it-_

He takes a fortifying breath, holding it in, and let’s go all at once. His shoulders lower under the oversized light tan coat he wears. His thumb trails over the material, only noticing a moment later that he should unclench his jaw.

Right. He still had to wait for his assistant to leave the town’s bakery, fortunately with new information. As his mind trails over the last piece of information they’ve collected, his feet take him to the main square, right in front of the remains of a burnt building.

It burned down 2 weeks ago. The fire had miraculously managed to avoid the two neighbouring businesses, though all of it now laid in charred ruins. Not a trace of dust had been spared from its cleansing flames. 

_It bears no marks from the Flames, but a mundane fire couldn’t possibly…_

An elbow suddenly leans purposely on his shoulder, and he almost jumps, startled out of his brooding thoughts.

“You know staring at it won’t build it back up again, right?” His assistant reminds him with a touch of humour, which only serves to rile him up. 

“I’m aware it requires a certain amount of professionalism to perform that very ritual,” he answers waspishly, probably undeserved but he wasn’t in a particularly great mood at the moment. 

His assistant removes his arm and shrugs theatrically. “I’m just saying boss, it won’t do you any good to keep dwelling on it.”

His mouth twists sourly. “I seem to recall you dwelling quite heavily in your spare time.”

There’s a beat, and he doesn’t need to look at him to feel regrets grip at what’s left of his heart. 

“I’m sorry, Tim. That wasn’t fair.”

Tim says nothing, but after a few excruciating moments of silence, his elbow nudges him, almost kindly. A peace offering. 

“You helped me get my revenge, let me help you with yours.”

“Well, _revenge_ isn’t what I would call it, that’s more your style.”

He laughs and nudges him again, probably trying to get him to look away from the ruins. “I’m here to talk if you need to, you know?”

He lets go of the breath he's been holding. Maybe he feels a little better.

“I know, I know.” He shakes his head, finally looking at his assistant. “Did you find anything useful for us, then?”

Tim scratches his head, his short hair seems almost blue in the moonlight. “Outright useful, maybe not. But there's been some interesting gossips I managed to get my teeth on. So we got that going for your Archival _needs_ and such.”

The Archivist nods, although his eyes roll at the phrasing. “Very well, we should head back to the castle.”

Tim grins as they start walking toward the edges of town. No need to use greater magic if they weren’t actively chased. A standard pair of seven-league boots would do.

“About time we call it a night, yeah! It’s getting really chilly around here.” 

“That’s your hubris for wearing a sleeveless shirt and no coat in November, claiming, and I quote, that you are ‘too hot for this’, end quote.” 

Tim, the Archivist knows, radiates more heat than the average human being. Merely walking next to him is enough to chase the unnatural coldness suffusing through his fingers.

Which was only a testament of how bad things were getting for this town… 

“Hey, I see you brooding over there. Just wait until we get back before you get all gloomy and spooky." Tim punctuates this with fidgety fingers. "We still need to remember where you parked the castle.”

Oh, right. “Well it should be over-...”

His eyes squint through the night, unable to distinguish the tell-tale distant silhouette of his humble abode.

“... Jon?”

Jon doesn’t look at him. He’s still looking for the castle.

“Jon, where’s the castle?”

Jon furrows his brows and only offers a long-suffering sigh.

“Looks like we’re taking the Maze today.”

Tim groans loudly, muttering swears probably meant for their resident castle driver.

The Archivist closes his eyes, and lets his mind wander in search of the right door to open. 

Ignoring the nagging feeling that something was most definitely not right.

<0><0><0>

The flame warms his fingers, but it’s not enough to warm his entire body. 

He’s vaguely aware that he kept it lit for a while, unthinkingly protecting it with his free hand cupped around it. The nothing pretends it won’t bat it off his hand, though he thinks it makes a sly attempt to snuff it with an odd gust of wind.

Then the winds most definitely picks up again, clearing enough of the fog that he can vaguely see the rough outlines of the Northern hills.

Oh right, he’s… That’s where he is now, right?

Then, marching through the veil, followed by billowing columns of dark smoke, comes the nearly grotesque shape of a… _thing_ moving through the mist, parting it without a single hesitation.

It then turns its single, golden eye toward him. Standing in its inescapable sight feels nearly unbearable.

He finds himself clutching the lighter so tight that he burns himself. Still, he cannot even pay it any mind as the giant of metal trudges its way toward him. 

_What even…_

It comes closer (too close? TOO CLOSE), and then suddenly stops, lowering itself and, to his muted bewilderment, a door stands before him.

At first, his nearly catatonic body doesn’t remember how to move. Then it lurches itself upright, instinctively drawn the warmth held inside the metal beast’s belly. He climbs the short ladder in a near dream-like state, and crosses its threshold. 

His mind takes a moment to reconcile the chaotic exterior of the… construction, and its rather cozy insides.

He walks into a warm living room, familiar and very clearly _inhabited._ Warm and familiar and a little scattered and eclectic… A teenager sits in the hearth-

Wait, what-

The image of a teenager sits cross-legged at the center of the hearth. The outline of his arms and long, dark hair burns strangely, like his core itself was made of coal. He soon realizes the teenager is _actually_ on fire, burning brightly within the stone walls. 

It leans one elbow over his knee. His red, fiery eyes observe him, or rather where he should be standing. A low whistle passes his incandescent lips, it sounds like fireworks.

“Well, you’re definitely not the Archivist.”

The Archivist…

“And good thing, too,” he says with a wry smile. “I think we can help each other out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks <3 you made it. It's mostly going to get better from there. I do tend to stretch things out cause I'm that sort of rambling person. I'm a little miffed that it took me 35k words to get to _chapter 3_ (god, I'm so sorry, I'M SO SORRY, there's just so much world-building I can do with both of these fandoms...)
> 
> Oh yeah, the spider scene is absolutely credited to that one scene in The Brothers Grimm... and thus marking the day I began to distrust horses. (I mean they're FINE... that movie had just really fucked up helpless horror scenes. The spider-horse and the gingerbread man were genuinely hard to watch for me)
> 
> In any case, I'll try to keep to my schedule. I'm... uncertain about next week, considering that I'm being scheduled on wednesday. (how rude!! that's my emotional support-writing day!! actually, just as I'm writing this, my boss called and asked if I was available... just, great) but in any case... 
> 
> I love you, so so much. Thank you for reading. <3
> 
> Next Chapter: A deal is made.


	8. in which Martin strikes a bargain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A thousand Dreams within me gently burn: And at times my sad heart is like sapwood,_   
>  _Bleeding dark yellow gold where a branch is torn._
> 
> \- Arthur Rimbaud, _“Evening Prayer”_ (trans. Wyatt Mason)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little early this week, because 1- this chapter is shorter, 2- I'm working on a surprise and 3- I have a hellish schedule in the next two days, so I might as well... 
> 
> You guys should check out [those amazing drawings of Martin (pre-curse)](https://22ratonthestreeet.tumblr.com/post/618470904350081024/some-martins-from-midnightsingvogel-s-howls) made by [bee_bro on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bee_bro/pseuds/bee_bro) (and also checkout their Yarrows verse/ [plantsman's fable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23614495/chapters/56670295) fanfics, it's _so sweet_ and so are they!)
> 
> alright alright, so some of y'all might recognize tinkered bouts of dialogues from the book, but aside that~
> 
>   
> Warnings for this chapter:
> 
> \- Lonely-aligned typical depression and ideations 
> 
> Enjoy <3<3<3

The room is only lit by the fire burning in the hearth, which happens to look like a sitting person. If he hadn’t known the fire had some kind of magical creature in it, Martin would have probably deemed the fireplace much too large for such a small room.

Well no, it wasn’t small, exactly. It looked smaller than it probably was, half draped in shadows. He could see the edges of another area beyond the darkness. With only the flames to see, he could tell the ceiling was held high with dark beams. Drying strings of herbs and unknown, crooked things were pinned along their lengths. He could see the shape of shelves filled with books on one side, a collection of narrow little bottles nestled right next to them, and the area he could barely see looked like a kitchen. 

The room was as warm as a beating heart, both suffocating and tentatively welcoming, if somewhat ominous as green and blue flames danced across the stone floor surrounding it. 

There was a single high back chair placed by the fireplace. It looked very comfortable. Maybe a little too comfortable.

Martin’s eyes follow the colours, surprised to find that looking directly at the flames doesn’t scorch them.

The apparition burns in bright blue, as if the firewood was logged with salt. Little dark red flames flutter around it as they whirl up and upward, like pieces of burnt paper up the chimney. His long straight hair looks purple, as does the garment he wears, some kind of long coat. Though, Martin thinks there’s a considerable amount of green where the top of his hair should be, blending oddly beneath the purple strands. The figure’s jaw has the hard set of someone who had to stared Death in the eyes too many times and still dared it to make its next move. But despite the sullenness he finds there, it curves slightly as it smirks up at him with purple lips. A slightly broken blue nose leads to two bright red eyes, quick and perceptive, burning intensely under two green eyebrows. 

Martin figures the little drawings he sees on the fire’s incandescent blue skin are possibly some kind of… hmm. Well, whatever they are, they look like eyes.

A lot of eyes. And all of them sizzling yellow and red like freshly burnt brands. 

“So,” the fire says, quirking a brow. “Do you want to make a bargain?”

Martin looks at it, feeling all the amalgamated aggravations he had to push through until this moment, which frankly promises nothing but yet more troubles for him.

Wordlessly, Martin turns to leave.

“WAIT! WAIT!!! Just hear me out!” The fire calls from behind him. 

He puts his hand on the brass handle. The door looks a little odd… Not that he’s going to look more into that.

“No, thank you.” Martin hears his raspy voice say distantly. He can’t think of anything else to better express how _done_ he is with today.

“But you don’t even know what I’m offering!” Its reprimanding, almost desperate voice says. Martin briefly goes through which particular send-off would best relay where the entity could shove its offer, but ultimately decides against it. Why bother. He promptly opens the door, ignoring the roaring fire behind him.

The door opens with a violent gust of wind. The metal, bendable legs of the building are hiking the hills at a breakneck pace. Martin doesn’t think he remembers seeing the ominous shape of the castle move so fast from his solitary window above the Library.

Despite the lack of visibility, Martin thinks he catches sight of… something following closely the progression of the castle. Something pale and impenetrable and amorphous… 

“ _Hell below_ , will you close that door!”

Martin blinks, and very calmly closes the door. 

He makes a point to stay right where he is though, keeping his back turned to the apparition with one hand on the handle.

“Look man,” its crackling voice adds with urgency in its efforts to reason with him. “Just take a seat for a couple of minutes, ok?”

Martin’s body, for its current lack of responsiveness, doesn’t make any more attempts to go outside. His back feels perhaps a bit warmer, which admittedly feels nice.

“I promise you, you’ll be able to leave if you really don’t like what I’m telling you, alright?”

Martin doesn’t move for a second, then feels his body slowly pull away from the door, his feet almost dragging as he reaches the plush chair and nearly sinks into it. 

_I went to seek my fortune and all I got for it was a seat in a comfy chair._

... Admittedly, that may have been the less awful thing that happened to him thus far. Not that it couldn’t take a turn for the worse any second now… 

The fire, surprisingly, leaves him to his thoughts and Martin finds himself wading through their stillness. For how long, he couldn’t say, but he feels a little warmer when his mind gathers back again. The figure of a young adult still sits in the hearth, humming a tune along with the crackling and whistling of the wood as he leans his back against the stone wall. It seems to sense the return of Martin’s awareness, its fiery eyes meeting his with a toothy smile. The teeth, much like his eyes, and his nails, are flickering bright red and yellow.

“Feeling better now?”

From what Martin’s poor eyes can see across the flames, the entity’s soothing concern looks genuine.

“Why am I here?” Are the first words out of his numb lips. Maybe he had been napping all this time. Maybe this had all been a very unpleasant dream… 

The fire shrugs, pointing at him. “What’s that in your hand?”

Martin lowers his gaze and sees nothing there.

“Ah…”

“Right, uh, you probably-” The fire looks awkwardly around the room. “You should be warm enough to get yourself back, I think.” He seems to think hard for a moment. “Try focusing on how your hand feels? You’re holding something in one of them.”

Martin heeds his advice and does so. He finally sees his strange hands come into view, only to realize one of his palms is firmly clasped around something. Slowly, he relaxes his fingers enough to see a rectangular object, with a carving like cobwebs on it.

Oh god, spiders… 

The apparition makes a sound. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You know what a tracking device is?”

Martin frowns. “It sounds pretty self-explanatory?”

The blue and purple face twists in a smirk, “Yeah, I suppose it does. Either way, that’s why you’re here. You’re welcome.”

Martin rolls his eyes, just a bit. Which turns into him throwing a wandering look around the room. “You thought I was the Archivist?”

“Well obviously not. Here’s been… erm, busy lately.” 

Oh yeah, right.

“But he did mention that he gave the lighter to someone who needed it.”

“… Oh.”

Words die on his lips as he takes yet another look around the room, uncertain of how to process his current situation.

“Trouble is,” the young man continues. “I’m not the only one who picked up your location, so I’m moving us a bit away from it right now. I mean, I could go back if you _really_ wanted me to drop you off in the down the hills, but honestly, I don’t think you actually want to die there.”

Martin turns to look at him again, “Who says I was going to die there?”

It grimaces slightly, “You look pretty bad off, it really wouldn’t have taken long at this point.”

“Right, and you’re sure of that because…?”

He gives a wan smile. It looks much too old on his face. “I know there’s a difference between wanting to _die_ and wanting the _hurt_ to just… stop, you know? You don’t have to get defensive about it, I know. You’re fine.”

Martin says nothing. Truth be told, hearing the words both warms and hurts him more than he’s willing to admit at the moment.

“How do you know?”

He scrunches his blue nose and splays his hands. “Because I know, that’s what I do. I know things. I know a whole lot of things.”

Martin clears his throat. He had to pay attention now. “That sounds like an awful lot of bragging if what you say is true.” 

Martin thinks he’s fighting off a smile. “Yeah, well, I try not to be _dark and ominous_ all the time about it, it gets old real fast. Also, it’s started raining in that part of the Folding Valley, and that usually brings all the bones up from under the mud. The moss can only do so much to cover them. You won’t be able to take three steps before tripping on some poor sod’s loose arm, but hey, maybe they were just trying to lend a hand.”

Martin blinks, picturing the scene. “Right, at least you seem to know the most popular gravesite for lost travelers in the area.”

Its grin grows a little sly, “I kinda just _dig_ them, you know.”

Martin can acknowledge the joke. He can see an effort was made. He closes his eyes.

“Aw come on, throw me a bone. I can feel you have it in you.”

A bone… “Which one, my humerus?”

The fire twists in the hearth, losing its shape as its poorly-muffled snorts bounce off around it. 

Martin thinks he can feel his lips stretching numbly. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t say it right. I can’t imagine how bored you have to be to laugh at that.”

The apparition’s laughter dies with a groaning wheeze that sends little sparks around it. His back thuds against the wall as he makes a heavy but content sigh. “Oh you have no idea. I’ve been stuck here for ages.” 

Ah, right… “What are you, exactly?”

With a deadpan expression, the fire quirks a brow and tilts its head back proudly. “I’m a fire demon.”

Martin leans a bit forward, folding his hands together, and mimics the motion of its brow. “Are you, though?”

Its half-moon jaw drops, now struggling to keep its composure. “I could be. What, I don’t look the part?” 

Martin shrugs, “You look like someone pretending to be an undertaker.”

It nearly sputters. “What? I’ve never pretended to be anything but what I was! Well… Except for that one time…”

“So you’re an undertaker on fire?”

The fire spreads its arms like a lax showman. “It’s as good as it gets.”

Martin looks down at his hand, ignoring how the light seems to go through it and starts counting on his fingers. “So let’s see, you’re a fire demon, who’s also an undertaker-”

“Don’t forget the ‘on fire’ part,” he adds with utmost seriousness.

Martin shakes his head. “-On fire, who knows a lot of things, and apparently bored enough to crack bad jokes at strangers.” 

“I disagree but that sounds about right.”

Martin looks at his hand, then back at the fire, a thought niggling at the back of his mind. “Then why don’t you leave?”

The fire looks at him cautiously. “Well, I can’t really.”

Martin says nothing, waiting for it to elaborate.

The young-looking, maybe-demon kinda looks to the side uncomfortably. “So… I’m bound to this hearth by contract. I do all the magic around here, I keep the castle going. But I can’t _move_ from this spot, or even set so much as a foot away. So yeah…” He scratches his head, perhaps self-consciously, before turning back to him with a piercing gaze. It reminds Martin of… “And what about you?”

A little lost in thoughts, Martin feels an inkling of defensiveness raising its head. “What about me?”

The fire grimaces at him dubiously. “I can see you’re under a spell… Several, actually.”

_So does everyone, apparently._

“Oh? You wouldn’t happen to be strong enough to take them off, wouldn't you?”

The apparition doesn’t comment on his moodiness, which should make him feel worse than it actually does. 

“I mean,” He shrugs again, carefully. “Of course I could.”

“But?” Martin voices the unspoken uncertainty, unwilling to grab onto hope just yet. “You could, but you won’t? Or you want my soul for it?”

The fire frowns unhappily at that but shakes its head. “It’s not just that. It’s… pretty strong, like someone really wanted to mess you over.” The fire admits, matter-of-factly. “I can tell at least one of them feels like one of the Watcher of the Waste’s to me.”

Martin finds that he can, in fact, confirm its theory through nodding, despite how tight his throat feels.

The young man nods along, vaguely gesturing at him. “But it seems more than that. There are several layers to it. I can see two of them, but I think there’s a third one lurking underneath.” He looks at him quietly, up and down, and Martin can’t bring himself to move under its scrutiny. “I’ll need to look more into it.”

“What does that mean?”

Martin thinks the fire seems uneasy, but it doesn’t look away as it speaks. 

“It means I can help you, but it may take a while.” He hesitates, then waves his hand in a dramatic, giving gesture. The little flames at his fingertips dance with the motion. “Which brings us back to where we started. So, are you willing to listen to me before taking to the hills again?

Martin stares warily at the fire, mulling over his current situation. “And you’ll just let me walk out if I say no?”

“Oh you can _walk_ out anytime you like. It might be a pretty bad fall, though.”

Martin rolls his eyes. He’s pretty sure the fire is messing with him, which is only confirmed when he finds a nasty grin pasted on its face.

“Alright, let me rephrase that: so you’ll just drop me off _safely_ if I say no?”

The so-called demon still looked quite amused, but nods, making a cursory X gesture over where a human heart should be. “I promise. So, are you listening?”

_Did he really want to?_

Martin exhales deeply. He knows deep down… Under the layers of cold apathy, he could feel himself stir. Then again, he’s read all sorts of terrible things happening to people making bargains with devils and demons… But surely, there was no harm in listening?

“Yeah, alright. Let’s hear it.”

The fire moves a bit closer to the edge of the hearth, leaning as close as he apparently could.

“It’s more of a barter than a bargain. I’ll break your curses if you agree to break this contract I’m under.”

It did sound simple enough… Which meant there had to be a catch. “And how do I know you’re being quite honest?”

The fire leans a little backward, pondering the question. In the end, he just shrugs. “You don’t. And maybe I’m not completely… But trust me, I gain more by being honest with you. Not to mention, one of the spells you’re under has considerably tempered with your lifespan, and it's being siphoned out of you at an alarming rate. If you go back out there now, you might not survive another night, if I’m any judge of that.

Martin musters his patience, or what little he can gather of it. Great, just… Great. “Right so… Why would you make a bargain with a dying man? Or- Or whatever I’ve become now?”

It shakes its head a little. “Well, you’re not _dead_ yet, and I can help you recover enough while you break my contract.”

Martin sighs and finally leans back in the chair. He did feel a lot better already… “And that contract you have, it’s with the Archivist?”

Would he be cruel enough to bind someone- something?- somewhere they couldn’t escape…? Martin feels his fists tighten as he forces himself to breathe. He thought of himself, trapped in the Library, unable to set so much as a foot outside… 

The fire scratches its hair awkwardly. It sends more of those little papery flames flying around. “Yes and no.” It seems to fumble with words, then shakes its head, its fiery eyes full of resolve. “I can’t get out of this hearth, but I’m actually bound to the castle itself. And the castle belongs to the Archivist.” Martin sees him try to add more, but his face closes abruptly. The aborted motion looks intimately familiar.

“And there’s been more than one Archivist before?”

The flames on his face furrow harshly, glaring at him with suspicion. 

“Yeah.” He finally confirms, cageyly.

Martin raises his hands, “It’s just, someone hmm… gave me a piece of their mind when I mentioned… Jon, well, the Archivist, not Jon… But I-...” Martin is nearly distracted by how difficult it feels to say his name. “But I don’t think they were talking about him. It just, you know, didn't sound like him?”

_But do you even know him?_

One green brow goes higher, but the fire seems to accept the explanation and visibly relaxes. “Jon’s an honourable man, to a fault even. I do have a contract with him as well. It’s part of the whole deal with the castle.”

“So you’re not doing this to hurt him?”

The entity tilts his head, his brows join the matching green hair crowning atop his head. A sharp smile blooms on his face. “You’re worried that I’m trying to hurt him?”

Martin almost feels his face turn red. Almost. It most certainly doesn't “Well, I don’t fancy being an accessory to someone else’s revenge at the moment?” 

“Oh really? How do you feel about personal revenge then?”

It looks at him with a positively evil grin. Maybe there’s some truth to that whole demon thing... 

“I’m not going to help you hurt him, or anyone.” He says instead, firmly making his point. The fire chuckles but relents, shaking its head. “Don’t you get anything out of this contract?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t have entered into it if I didn’t… But circumstances were pretty bleak at the time. They still are, but I’d rather not see them happen again.”

Martin takes a moment to think. The fire in the hearth doesn’t wane, though it seems to mellow pleasantly. It feels… Nice, like a familiar book.

“Does Jon know you’re trying to break your contract?”

There’s a few moments of wood popping before the flames give an answer. “He’s aware it has to be done. It never seems like the right time, though. He doesn’t know I’m asking you now.”

It has to be done… 

Martin looks at the little lighter in his hand. He thinks of himself, he thinks of Jon… 

“Alright,” he finally says. “What are the terms of the contract? How do I break it?

The apparition pulls away from the back wall of the hearth. “So you agree to a bargain? My freedom for yours?”

“If you agree to keep your word, then so shall I.” Martin states solemnly, a strange sense of finality fills him as he speaks. He bravely prepares to brace himself against it.

“You have my word.” He says with a crooked smile. It looks genuine despite how darkly he seems. “A bargain has been made. I’ll break your curses the moment you set me free, and you can find safety here until then.”

They both stay quiet, which is quite pleasant, but... “So… how do I break your contract?”

“Well, obviously I can’t tell you. That’s specifically part of the contract for all signatories involved. Neither I nor Jon can say what the main clause is.”

Well, that’s _helpful._

“... So, what, you expect me to miraculously guess how to free you?”

Or stay here forever???

“I mean you strike me as a pretty clever person, you can figure it out if you watch and listen carefully…… Look, please give it a try?… Since you know there’s… More than one Archivist, I can tell you our contract is going to hurt him in the long run. I’ve seen it. I _know_ it. It’s already hurting him, though he refuses to admit it.”

“And you, too?”

The fire frowns, but a somber expression slowly shades over his face. Martin starts to hate looking at this worn helplessness, shaped like a young man. Yet his flinty eyes spark like a thousand defiant suns, and it burns the weathered paper-like texture of his face. 

“I just want it to stop.”

Martin knows that makes him breathe deeply, but he can't feel himself move. He slowly settles back in the chair, again reminded of all he’s been through until this moment. And this creature, this young man asking for his help and offering his in return… 

Oh, what the hell.

“I’ll give you back your freedom.”

The fire lifts his fiery eyes at him, his face unreadable.

“I’ll do it. We’ll be okay.”

He smirks at him. It’s small but genuine. “I can see why he gave you the lighter.”

What did that _mean_ , “Well…” He’s about to go back to the apparent fact that he ‘needed’ the lighter when the thought of Jon suddenly sends him in a panic. “Wait, he can’t know I’m here!”

The fire looks at him funny. “What? Why? He already knows you, doesn’t he? I mean sure he has the manners of a cranky old man and he apparently can't stand touching dirty dishes…” He shakes his head. “But I don’t think he would kick you out? Oh, and _trust me_ , he _will_ know you’re here. That’s kind of our thing.”

Martin does his best to temper his rising apprehension, but there’s no helping it. “No, I mean yes, I think-” He tries to say something’s following him, but the words choke him right away, which only worsens his state. “I won’t let you get hurt because of me, I can’t let him know it’s me!”

“... Mate, you’re safe here. The castle was built like a literal fortress.”

Well that’s somewhat comforting… 

“It’s not that I don’t trust you-”

“Gerry.”

Martin stops short.

“My friends call me Gerry. You can trust me.”

It strikes him how similar that felt with Jon’s introduction. It’s almost enough to make a goofy smile spread on his face-

_That sounds like what a demon working for greater evil would say, wouldn’t it?_

Martin shakes his head. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. I think I can’t trust myself.”

Gerry’s lips flatten dubiously, but he remains quiet for a moment, observing him closely. “Look. I can’t tell you what to do. If you don’t want to be known, I won’t force you. But we better think of a pretty good reason why I would allow you in the castle if you’re going to pretend to be a ghost or something. Jon _really_ hates the Forsakens.”

Martin laughs a little dispassionately at the irony. So much for fighting against what he’s truly been this entire time… 

But Martin was nothing if not spitefully stubborn, and he’ll be _damned_ if he lets the Watcher hurt more people because of him. Damn him and damn it all… If he has to stop feeling his hands… 

Gerry sighs long-sufferingly. His form suddenly shifts, morphing into something smaller, until it looks a lot like a plain regular fire, cradled in its grate, albeit with odd colours. A glance lets Martin see his half-moon face burning among the green and blue flames. 

“I’m gonna assume you’ve had a pretty bad day. You should get some rest, it’ll be easier to think with a clear head tomorrow.”

Martin lets go of a little gasp, clasping his hands together. “But won’t he be back by then?”

The face in the flames tilts this way and that way, grimacing. “Well, I’ll think of something if he does.” There’s a stretch of time which Martin cannot keep track of, until he hears Gerry’s warm crackling voice raise again. “Can I get a few more logs before you pass out on me?”

_So polite_ , his groggy brain supplies. _Really doesn’t match the undertaker look._

Martin puts his body into motion, moving a few logs down from the pile by the fireplace. Well, what did _he_ know? 

“I feel like nothing should surprise me anymore…” 

The fire snorts little purple flames. “Yeah well, good luck with that. You’re in it for the long haul, buddy.”

Martin, derisively, chuckles along. This was a mess.

The fire lowers as does his eyelids. Maybe Gerry was onto something.

He hears the wood pop softly along with Gerry’s muttering, which turns to the soft humming of a tune he didn’t know. The minutes lose their meaning to him.

Martin closes his eyes. 

Maybe tomorrow might work out...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya, you made it <3 Jon and Gerry _are_ friends, which only makes the inevitable harder to face. Looks like Martin will have to start snooping to get some clues... If he gets a chance to do that, of course.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, I love you all <3
> 
> Next Chapter: Company's coming 👀


	9. in which Martin makes strange acquaintances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOF so I’m a little late but this chapter didn’t feel complete at 5k. And I may have been distracted by a manhunt and sometimes I just have to live up to my username. (ok but work is killing me, actually) Anyway;
> 
> Warnings for this chapter:
> 
> \- Everyone is actually on the brinks of a breakdown but it’s fine they all get MCDonalds it’s fine  
> \- Beholding-Typical Compulsion 
> 
> Enjoy <3

What wakes Martin isn’t the brightness of the room in the morning, but rather the feeling of something insistently kneading on his lap. 

His sea glass eyes open to find an orange gaze looking up at him, three inches from his face. He stands very still while it registers that the thing sniffing him curiously is most definitely a cat, and remains further motionless as the shorthaired, smoke gray pet starts rubbing its round head almost aggressively under his chin, its happy rumbling so loud it makes Martin’s entire body rattle like glass. He gingerly moves a hand to brush its back, and to his surprise, finds the evening’s numbness gone from his fingers. Meanwhile, the cat is only too happy to regale itself of his attention while he slowly recalls just where he’d fallen asleep. 

He finds the fire in the hearth has turned to embers throughout the night. He peeks at a faint glow of cool colours smouldering undisturbed amidst a few days-worth of ash. 

For a moment, Martin confusedly thinks maybe he had imagined it all. His sleep had been dreamless, but not unpleasant. Maybe this had all been a product of his overtaxed body, and he would soon wake to his sad little apartment over the Library. All the nightmares and all the infuriating people he’s met, all of them just a gaggle of wild daydreams gone out of hand. Now he may finally brush them off and get back to-

Well, it didn’t explain the cat. There’s never been a cat in the Library.

Neither did it explain the two incandescent eyes shining back at him, nestled in their bed of cinders. 

“Good morning,” a familiar, sleep-deep voice floats up to him from the fireplace, which he slowly recognizes as Gerry’s. “Don’t forget our bargain.” 

Martin is too astonished to answer back, but the reality of his newfound situation hits him like a ton of bricks. A tiny purple flame stretches over the embers, yawns, and turns itself over to face the other way, apparently trying to catch a few more minutes of sleep before facing the new day. 

Did he really just… Oh. Alright. So maybe fire demons do need sleep as well… Or maybe he didn’t feel like dealing with Martin’s impending breakdown so early in the morning.

So… All of this was real… 

Martin looks down at the cat, shamelessly snuggling against his chest. A bit of extra skin is hanging off its stocky frame, like an oversized coat. Its nearly wool-like fur looks terribly soft.

“Erm… Hi?”

The cat looks at him patiently, and actually chirrups back, almost polite.

“Oh, hm… Wait, are you- Are you a magical cat? Or- Some kind of familiar?” Was that how they were called? Then a sillier, horrible thought occurs to him. “Are you the Archivist???”

The cat blinks and, when it opens its mouth again, meows loudly, imperiously demanding more pets from Martin, who feels both very confused and rather foolish. He obliges the bully, scratching it under its chin. The cat closes its eyes and enjoys the attention. 

“Oh alright, alright. I’ve never had a cat before, sorry if I’m not fluent in Cattian.” 

Still, the sight undeniably warms him, much as Gerry’s fire had the night before. The thought is quickly smothered as his eyes land on his hands, gently carding through the fur of the creature in his lap. 

His skin, he thinks, would appear old and leathery to anyone looking from a certain distance, albeit the colour was most definitely not what anyone would deem “healthy-looking” in his own opinion. But from up close… The texture was all wrong. Dry and sickly, and it seemed like one wrong move would break it-… Martin closes his eyes, ignoring the thought of himself falling in flaking pieces, like a mishandled husk of paper.

The cat, however, doesn’t seem to mind his new altered state of being, which admittedly puts a balm on his heart, despite everything.

“Hmm… Are you hungry? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

The cat meows again, which… could mean anything.

“Alright well, let’s see what we can find…”

He awkwardly tries to set the cat down, but it instead hikes itself higher on his shoulder.

“Oh wow, you’re heavy- Not that it’s bad! It looks very good on you, just didn’t expect that.”

Admittedly, rambling to a cat is objectively an improvement to rambling to books and inanimate objects. Martin wraps his arms under the cat to support its weight and it curls happily over him, seemingly satisfied with this arrangement. 

As he walks carefully around the room, mindful not to jostle the cat too much, Martin finds that it is indeed bigger than his first impression had led him to believe the night before… Just a tad cluttered, really. 

Bright daylight falls from smudged porthole windows. One by the door, and another located over a messy workbench in what had to be the kitchen area. Those familiar accommodations certainly made the place look less sinister, almost homely in their own, peculiar ways. The space was crowded with boxes over boxes of what appeared to be paper sheets that must have been there for ages, judging by the telling layer of dust covering them. Martin looks curiously up at the strings hanging from the ceiling beams until he notices that some of them rather looked like dried chunks of meat. Or twisted little brown bodies drying in the floating dust and sunshine, among other things. He feels himself blanch as he gets the vague impression one of them has noticed him back, and quickly looks for something else to investigate. 

Despite its oddities, the space is surprisingly more colourful than he would have expected from all the grim gossips regarding the Archivist. Aside from the boxes, trinkets and a mismatched collection of leather-bound books took their fair share of space on the many shelves lining up the walls, though Martin could easily tell which had been touched or moved recently solely from where the dust had been disturbed. 

Martin stops in his tracks. 

It wasn’t really _that bad_... 

… Fine, maybe it was so blatantly dusty he couldn’t help but notice the slight footprint trails where people had _obviously_ been walking through the room and what had obviously been left there for ages… 

God good, was that a _skull-! ___

__Alright, alright, _MAYBE_ this reminded him too much of the deserted Library he woke up to- well, to a lesser degree, of course! ( _WHY_ was there a skull!) This place wasn’t quite in the same state of… abandon as his old workplace had been. Just the thought of the forsaken building reminds him of all the grime still impossibly stuck in his throat, which never did budge despite how many times he’s tried to clear it. _ _

__Well, then again, the state of the castle can easily confirm what Gerry had said about the Archivist’s long absences._ _

__Martin physically shakes himself, like it could actually shake off the decay still clinging to him. It doesn’t fail to make the cat chatter inquisitively._ _

__“Ah, right sorry about that.” The shorthair seems to accept his apology and digs its claws deeper in his shoulder. “Ow, ok hey, I said I was sorry!”_ _

__Following said dustless trails on the floor leads him to a large bookshelf, full of titles he can hardly make out from how worn their spines have become. His eyes catch a familiar shape at the level of his eyes, and he carefully extracts one arm to pick a familiar grey little book written in an unknown language. Martin gasps softly._ _

__“It’s you!”_ _

__The book, naturally, says nothing._ _

__“I’m so sorry, I completely forgot about you! How did you even end up in here-… Oh.” He quickly thinks of his meeting with Jon, coming to a somewhat disappointing conclusion. “He never did give you back, didn’t he?”_ _

__The book doesn’t reply, but Martin can almost imagine it sharing his consternation. In truth, he’s not sure if he should be peeved or impressed. “I mean, maybe he just forgot?”_ _

__The book is warm and comforting in his hand, and despite everything, he feels the brave attempt of a brittle smile trying to bloom on his face. He brushes his thumb over the familiar cover and gently puts it back up on the shelf._ _

__His melancholy eyes are drawn to the window by the door, where he can clearly make off a sea-side town. Wait, what-_ _

__“Is that- Oh, I’ve never seen the shore before! But how did we reach the coast overnight?…”_ _

__That was a rather puzzling thought. Moreso, he struggles to picture how something as lofty as the so-called ‘castle’ could actually squeeze itself in such a snug little town without crushing a few houses in the process._ _

__Actually, remembering how fast the castle had moved just the night before, Martin wonders how the precariously balanced boxes of paper hadn’t already toppled down, scattering all over the floor at the slightest jolt, what with the castle’s jerky lurching across the Folding Valley--_ _

__Or more importantly, how come nothing seemed to be remotely disturbed by the movements of the castle itself? It hadn’t occurred to him the night before, but he nearly shudders at the thought of all those books flying and falling down from their shelves, breaking upon impact- or worse even, somehow getting anywhere in reach of the fireplace-_ _

__“Hey Gerry?”_ _

__He hears the fire mutter. He turns to the cat instead._ _

__“Well, do _you_ know where we are?”_ _

__The cat meows, happy to lend assistance. Martin sighs and continues his exploration._ _

__Further snooping (he ISN’T snooping…) leads him to a grand total of four doors on the main floor; one leading to a bathroom that had probably seen better days; one which seemingly looks like a broom cupboard filled with odd-looking contraptions that were most definitely _not_ brooms; one which opens to an eclectic backyard filled with metal scraps (this one, though plain-looking, seems to belong to an entirely different location. Martin quickly closes it, eager to evade any prying eyes…) and finally, one that opens to a flight of wooden stairs. _ _

__At that last one, the cat starts to struggle in his arms, clearly meaning to race up the stairs. Martin closes the door in a hurry._ _

__“I’m going to bet you’re not allowed up there, aren’t you?”_ _

__The cat, now on the floor, complains loudly over the unfairness of it all._ _

__“Yeah, well, you and me both. Maybe there are bad things for you up there.”_ _

__The nonsensical exchange must have been loud enough to wake the fire in the hearth, who groans loudly. The flames struggle to take shape within the ash, his purple and green hair standing like someone who’d just been pulled out of bed… Which was probably the case? Without even thinking, Martin goes to the log pile and sets a few of them within reach. The blue flames eagerly sprawl over them, slowly turning into Gerry’s familiar face. He drowsily opens his eyes._ _

__“Oh great, you’re here again.” he grumbles unenthusiastically, then noticing Martin’s face and shakes his head, “Not you, I’m talking to the Admiral. He’s not supposed to be here.”_ _

__The gray cat, sitting content and dignified on the chair, looks absolutely unconcerned with what he may or may not be allowed to do._ _

__“The Admiral? What kind of name is that?”_ _

__Gerry scoffs. “It’s as good a name as any. He always seems to know how to find his way in here somehow. Which means his owner might storm up the castle if she notices he’s gone.”_ _

__Martin picks up the cat’s large body so he may sit down. The Admiral seems to tolerate this change and curls up in his lap instead. Martin looks at the fire sheepishly._ _

__“Should I be worried?” Martin says. The fire shrugs carelessly._ _

__“Maybe. She can’t _actually_ come in here when Jon isn’t around, or she just hates it, which is fair if you ask me. But it’s _her_ cat, so she’s justified to be quite annoyed or worried he’ll get his paws into trouble. it never bodes well, in any case. Anyway, I’m pretty sure you got bigger things to worry about right now.”_ _

__Right on cue, a very loud sound of wood creaking atrociously comes from the front door. Gerry says something that ought to be a swear in a language he doesn’t know._ _

__Where there was a metal door only a moment ago, now stood an ostentatiously yellow one. Its nearly acrid tone reminds him of-_ _

__Martin stands up in a panic. For some damnable reason, the cat decides this is the best time to cling to him._ _

__“Shit, he’s found me, he’s-”_ _

__“What? Who?”_ _

__Martin feels himself backing away, desperately trying to pull the cat off of him. His breath starts to feel colder in his lungs._ _

__“The Maze! Cat, get- This isn’t a good time!”_ _

__He feels his back hit the bookshelf, followed by a dreadful crack. instinctively, his arms wrap around the Admiral protectively, fearing the shelf would collapse over them._ _

__Fortunately it doesn’t, but Martin can now recognize the feeling of numbness seeping through him. He gasps in surprise, finding that he cannot see himself, but the Admiral is still visible… Although, Martin reckons the cat looks a little paler…_ _

__The yellow door then bursts open, and out of it tumbles two individuals. An ear-splitting sound of laughter nearly drowns their snapping and bickering as they both struggle to get up and close the door behind them. Finally cutting off the spiralling cackling following them._ _

__“-never going back through the Maze again, Jon. It gets worse every time!”_ _

___Jon_ _ _

__The Archivist, still looking frazzled and disgruntled, tries to collect his thoughts after what must have been a heavy fall on the wooden floor. His equally exasperated companion was a tall man with raven black hair, dressed in expensive, colourful clothes. The fancy long sleeves hanging from his arms looked a bit torn off at the end-_ _

__“You say that every time,” the Archivist reminds him tetchily. “but it took us a third of the time necessary to first locate the castle and to get back to it. The Maze is just… in a mood lately. It’s a perfectly reasonable shortcut-.”_ _

__“Well since you like it so much, next time you go on ahead and I’ll wait for you guys with some pleasant company! Look, I’m all for getting my ass slapped, but her hands are definitely made out of jagged rocks or something. So instead of-”_ _

__“Who _are_ you?” _ _

__Jon’s voice had dropped all traces of familiarity, now cold and threatening. Time freezes._ _

__The unexpected change prompts his companion to turn a confused, yet still irritated look at him, until he notices the Archivist’s complete stillness, the darkness of his eyes imperceptibly growing wider. The other one’s mouth snaps shut and he turns a searching glance in the direction Jon is staring at._ _

__Which is exactly where Martin was currently huddling down, holding his breath. The feeling of being seen makes his stomach turmoil in dreadful apprehension. He feels himself pull away, try to sink deeper in the fog, away-_ _

__“Let go of that cat, or I will _make you_ ,” Jon’s deep voice snaps. A sharp gasp leaves Martin at the sensation of being hooked and _jerked_ forward. It’s enough to bring forth some of his awareness, but his instincts to _get away_ from the sheer intensity of his gaze are hard to ignore. _ _

__Those lovely dark eyes, how panicked and vulnerable they had been when they first met, are now looking at him with cold certainty, and a fair bit of anger. It’s nearly impossible to look away as the gaze intensifies, and the Archivist’s near-black irises start to glow in an incandescent, amber light, _just like Gerry’s-_ _ _

__Martin takes a shuddering breath. His voice leaves him like a cloud of frost, more of a crackling whisper now than ever before as he stares in awe and terror at the Archivist. “I’m sorry, he- won’t let go,” he says, and is quite aware how lame an excuse that is. It is nonetheless the truth._ _

__The Archivist huffs humorlessly, clearly not believing a word he says. He stalks slowly towards him. Martin feels like he’s inhabiting every inch of the room as he draws deeper in it. “Oh I know what kind of _grip_ your kind has.” He sneers. “I know you think you’re safe in your veil of serene denial…” _ _

__He stops, tilting his head solemnly. “But unfortunately for you, I can _feel you_.” He slowly raises a hand, palms up, and spirals his fingers into a tight grip, and then _pull_. _ _

__Martin yelps soundlessly at the sensation ripping him out of the fog and, clenching his teeth, does the only thing he can think of after all he’s been through._ _

__He tugs back._ _

__Apparently brutally enough to make the Archivist gasp. His back hits on the shelf again, and this time a few things do tumble down around them. Fortunately, nothing hits._ _

__He has enough time to see Jon standing dumbfounded in the middle of the room, staring with wide eyes where Martin was glowering back at him. His hand still hangs in the air, like he couldn’t quite believe the invisible line he’d cast had been ripped out of him._ _

__Martin sees him rally himself to try once more when Gerry’s voice suddenly breaks through the standstill between them._ _

__“Hey Jon?”_ _

__He sees the Archivist’s severe features turn minutely at the hearth, before his limbs suddenly go out under him, ducking in extremis as a flaming log birl straight at where his head had been._ _

__It’s like a tension suddenly breaks in the room, and though Martin still feels the fog going in and out of his lungs, he can breathe a little better._ _

__Jon now stares at Gerry in complete disbelief, seemingly unable to process what just occurred._ _

__The other man in fancy clothes suddenly comes to life as well, and after a handful of seconds assessing the situation, casually sails past the stunned Archivist and picks up the burning log with his _bare hands_. He somehow manages to be careful of his trailing sleeves as he waves the offending projectile at the fire demon. “Oh hey buddy, you wanna be careful with that? I think I keep my stamp collection somewhere around here.”_ _

__Gerry, now back to his complete form and sitting cross-legged in the fireplace, raises a brow. “Thanks. I must have dropped it on some idiot. I wasn’t trying to destroy your perfectly innocuous, totally real collection of stamps. Here, hand it over.”_ _

__“Careful, it’s hot!!” He grins and moves to do just that, handling the burning log the same way one handles a banal object. Martin thinks there’s no way his overly cheerful voice was as laid back as he pretended to be._ _

__“What is _wrong_ with you two,” the Archivist finally bristles out of his stupor, still visibly reeling from Gerry’s interruption. _ _

__Which, in turn, makes the deadpan spirit shift his scorching gaze up at him._ _

__“No, what is wrong with _you_ , Jon?” He says, taking Martin aback as he raises his voice, admonishing the magic-user. “You have no rights to just _Behold_ the entire room on a whim, just because you perceived a threat you personally have issue grief with. You can’t keep tackling situations on the “strike first” basis and sheer brute force, just because you _can_. You said you had it under control!” _ _

__Jon seems quite shaken, but refuses to back down. “Of course I do! I just, I just assumed-”_ _

__“You didn’t even _think_ of asking me why he’s here! What do you think I’m actually here for, make sure Tim doesn’t run out of hot water?”_ _

__“Hey now, I do need my showers.” The tall man has his arms crossed, though his jest falls a little flat._ _

__Jon sends a glare at the other man and shakes his head at the fire. “Alright. I know it looks bad-”_ _

__He catches a look at the both of them, waiting for him to give his piece and neither of them particularly happy with whatever transpired earlier. Martin would genuinely prefer to give them some privacy, if not for the fear of being caught by that stupefying gaze again._ _

__Jon lowers his eyes, frowning as he tries to formulate his thoughts._ _

__“I _had_ the feeling,” he starts, with some difficulty and much frustration. “That something happened to Gerry last night and maybe I assumed the worst. And when we finally made it back…” He stops short and his face hardens. _ _

__After it becomes obvious Jon wouldn't add more to his explanation, Gerry sighs, sending little sparks of irritation around him. “I wouldn’t let a threat in the castle, Jon,” he says tiredly, but his frustration had simmered down. “You know what I can do.”_ _

__The Archivist clenches his teeth but exhales deeply. “Not willingly, you wouldn’t. But I understand what you said.” He nods at Gerry and turns to the one who must be Tim. “I’m sorry my magic caught you as well. I’ll make it up to you.”_ _

__The tall one seems to consider whether or not to accept his apology and, after a second longer than was comfortable, finally pats him on the back, apparently laughing at whatever dismay he saw on Jon’s face. “I accept extravagant outings and Strangian food, but since that’s not up your alley, I think you could walk me through a few odd spells I found last week.”_ _

__“Of course,” Jon says without a hint of hesitation._ _

__There’s a slight lull where they speak too low for Martin to hear. Just as Martin thinks he should try to discreetly pull off the cat from his tattered jumper, the damned thing starts purring up a storm, inevitably catching the attention of all three other people in the room._ _

__Martin freezes. he can only imagine what they were seeing, as he’s quite aware his limbs are still invisible._ _

__Wait, could they actually see him, regardless?_ _

__That question is answered only a moment later when the one called Tim points a thumb in his general direction and leaves the other two to discuss in hushed tones. The objectively handsome man strides across the room and slows down slightly when he gets closer._ _

__“Alright, so I’m assuming you’re somewhere in that space, yeah?” He makes a somewhat wide motion with his hands, which could mean anything. From up close, his voice is even more booming than it was from across the room. “If it helps, I can see a floating cat, and that scamp looks very pleased with himself, so I’m assuming he’s really got you good, didn’t he?”_ _

__He smiles like a thousand suns. It’s almost unbearable. Martin has to shake himself a bit to come up with words. “Y-Yes. Can you help?” He rasps quietly, moving the cat up and down a little, which makes no difference for the cat but suitably illustrates his predicament._ _

__The man laughs (maybe he has a drumbox for a ribcage) and sits down, still a good three feet away. “Sure thing. I may have to touch you for that though, you think you can handle it?”_ _

__Martin blinks. It nearly surprises him how his mind recoils at the very idea of being touched right now. It’s a sad, sobering thought. “Not really… Hm, can you- I’ll let go of his middle and unhook his claws if you can take it from there?”_ _

__He grins and thankfully doesn’t comment on Martin’s current state. “Oh that’ll work just fine! Just tell me when I can grab him.”_ _

__Martin does just that and they successfully unhook the Admiral. The cat bemoans his loss for all to hear._ _

__“My, you _are_ insufferable today, aren’t you?” The cat wiggles in his careful but firm grip. Tim looks at him with raised brows. “You must be top quality comfy for him to get his claws in you so fast. It took me _months_ before he finally let me pick him up.” _ _

__Well, Martin’s never had pets, so he couldn’t elucidate that mystery for the burning-log yielding, possibly wizard man._ _

__“I’m Tim, by the way.” He goes to offer his hand to shake but veers off the aborted motion smoothly, probably belatedly remembering Martin’s discomfort. He waves two fingers at him and winks, clicking his tongue. Martin _swears_ he sees little stars shoot off from the wink. “Though you might know me as Wizard Stoker, if you’re from near the Capital.”_ _

__Martin shakes his head, then realizes Tim couldn’t possibly see him- “No, I’m sorry. We only ever heard national News from the Capital in Market Chipping, anything else just didn’t make it that far.”_ _

__He mock-sputters at the outrage of being unknown. “Well that’s a shame, I think I made plenty of headlines, back when I lived there.” He leans conspiratorially. “But anyway, how does a Folding Valley local end up lost in the Northern hills at this time of the year?”_ _

__Martin blinks, a little put off by the straightforward question. He swallows and, again, tries to clear his throat, to no avail. “I went to seek my fortune. It didn’t work out for me,” he offers curtly. Maybe he’s a little bitter, which is currently preferable to apathy, he supposes._ _

__Tim offers a sympathetic smile. For once, it actually seems entirely genuine. “Well, I know you said no, but hear me out first. So, that whole, cold zone you’re in right now? One way to counter that sort of magic is through touch or, more specifically, bonding.” He waves the sullen cat in between them. “So this one had the right idea. But yeah, the thing is that it’s entirely up to you. So, I’m just laying this down here, but I give _amazing_ hugs. Just say the word, and you’ve got one.”_ _

__“Erm… Thanks?” That’s… Uh. That’s unexpected. “Why?”_ _

__“Why what?”_ _

__“I just… I scared the hell out of the Archivist- I’ve never _heard_ of anyone but the Archivist living here-” Martin stops, tired of the way his throat itches and the way his thoughts evade any sense of order. “-Why are you putting yourself in danger, if I’m as big a threat as he thinks I am?”_ _

__Tim looks at the ceiling beams while scratching the beginning of a beard. He throws a quick look at Jon’s tense shoulders as he speaks with Gerry, gesturing excessively over something._ _

__In the end, Tim just shrugs. “Let’s say, I’m trying to take a page from someone else’s book. But yeah. It’s something I can do, so why not?”_ _

__Martin looks down, unsure what to make of the man’s amability. “So you’re… also an Archivist?”_ _

__“Oh me? _No_.” He laughs wholeheartedly. “It’s a long story, but I’m kind of his assistant right now? _ _

__“How can you be ‘kind of’ his assistant?”_ _

__“Well firstly, because he’s not _actually_ academically qualified to have an assistant, like _moi_ , therefore what I’m currently doing isn’t recognized by the state, not that I care _much_ what the state wants from me anymore, aaaand secondly, because I had to hang out here for _months_ before he agreed to even call me his assistant. There was a full _36 days_ where he just _pretended_ I wasn’t there!”_ _

__Martin frowns. “Wait, why are you his assistant if he’s less qualified than you?”_ _

__“Ah-ah, I said _academically_ qualified. You’d think a government claiming to be a meritocracy would _actually_ reward people for their skills and expertise and not just the amount of money their family have invested in their education, titles, and political allies…” He laughs sharply, with too many teeth and maybe a little unhinged. It was a little eerie to see this boundless joviality suddenly shift to genuine ire. Tim exhales deeply and shakes his head, like that didn’t just happen. “More importantly? the Bossman’s a _genius_ , he’s just a huge pain in the-”_ _

__“Tim.”_ _

__He turns to the Archivist so fast, it nearly gives _Martin_ whiplashes. “What’s up, Bossman?” He says, overly cheerful._ _

__Jon closes his eyes and exhales deeply. From his long-suffering reaction, Martin thinks Tim must probably enjoy bothering the man with the title._ _

__“Would you be so kind as to drop the Admiral at Georgie’s place?” Jon speaks evenly, nodding at the grumpy cat in his assistant’s arms._ _

__Tim’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “What, now? She’s probably not even home right now, or else that little gremlin wouldn’t be here.”_ _

__“I also need to speak with our new… Guest.” He adds with thin lips, not further beating around the bush. Martin thinks there’s a sneer just barely held from sight. The Archivist doesn’t look at him, which Martin can’t decide if it’s better or worse._ _

__Tim frowns dubiously but deftly stands anyway, careful to keep his grip on the cat. “Yeah alright, that little guy probably had his quota of shenanigans for today.” He starts to head for the stairs, before turning again to Martin. “Oh, _by the way_ ,” he says, dragging the words emphatically, his voice carries effortlessly around the entire room. “What do you want us to call you?”_ _

__That’s- That’s a weird way to phrasing it-_ _

__Wait, would they know- Would _Jon_ know he was the same Martin if he told them his name was Martin? It was a fairly common name, it’s not like- … But would he??? _ _

___Think fast…_ _ _

__“Uhm,” He tries raising his voice, but he doesn’t think it carries much._ _

__Oh God, they’re both blinking at him._ _

__“… Keats?”_ _

__“Keats!” Tim announces like a fanfare._ _

__“Keats?” Martin sees Gerry’s purple hair poking out the hearth, grimacing._ _

__“Keats,” Jon repeats flatly like the name personally wronged him and his entire family._ _

__“Great! Well, welcome aboard, K-man! Looking forward to _see_ you around the castle!” He smiles and throws what has to be a pointedly, cautionary look at Jon before deftly opening the door leading to the staircase. Martin hears him stomp up to the second floor. The door gently closes behind him._ _

__Then, it’s just him and the Archivist, looking like he’s just bitten a lemon and had an entire bag to go through still._ _

__“I have been informed of your situation.” He states plainly with his hands behind his back, staring exactly where Martin still huddles. It doesn’t fail to make him feel nervous._ _

__When Martin remains silent, Jon continues. “And I’ve been told I need to formally apologize for my earlier behaviour, which I will also admit, was unbefitting of any decent host. And for that, I do apologize.”_ _

__Martin, again, doesn’t say anything. A little kernel in him doesn’t particularly want to let go of his bitterness._ _

___Well, definitely not right now. Although, him apologizing was kind of a nice gesture…_ _ _

__Taking his silent rumination in strides, the stark man bends down at the knees, getting eye-levelled with Martin. “Now that the formalities are done with, here’s what's going to happen.” He points a scarred finger at him. “You may have won Gerry’s favour, and apparently Tim’s, but you haven’t fooled me.” He enunciates each word with low, ominous intent. It both irritates and beckons Martin irrationally. “I will find out your true motives for being here, and if you so much as _think_ of harming anyone who comes by the Archives while you reside in it, I _will_ find you. And I _will_ tear you apart.” _ _

__His eyes glow for just a moment, punctuating his words as not just a threat, but a promise._ _

__Martin lets go of the breath he’s been holding this entire time. It comes out in mad little gasps. And then it just keeps going._ _

__“What.” Martin looks up to see the severity of Jon’s features twisted in a scowl of wary incomprehension. But it’s too late now. Martin can’t stop laughing at the absolute absurdity of the situation._ _

__It’s infuriating, he finds. Being searched for flaws. Martin now feels that his tiny kernel of resentment is perfectly justified. Maybe that’s what might just bolster him enough to raise his hand and, seeing as the man remains unmoved at the motion, standing still as he stares holes through him…_ _

__“Have I seen you before…” The man squints his eyes, his thin lips part slightly in his increasing concentration._ _

__Martin easily moves his hand to the man’s forehead and unceremoniously shoves him backwards._ _

__The man, unexpectedly, loses balances and topples back. Stunned and furious. He fumbles on his elbows, still staring intensely at where Martin should be like he was trying his damndest to see through the fog._ _

__“I don’t think I could care any less if you truly believe running after the whereabouts of a _ghost_ is the best use of your time.” Martin exhales with a rattling voice, smiling faintly as he tries to catch his breath. His voice sounds wintry in his own ears. “I apparently now have a gathering of foes looking for me. Everywhere I go, even here. So you may as well get in line, or take a number. For all I know, something a lot worse than you might get to me first, so I’m _sorry_ if your frankly ridiculous spoutings of paranoia are the _least_ of my concerns right now.”_ _

__Jon blinks incredulously, completely still for a few seconds as his face is locked in frustration and puzzlement. He finally primly gathers himself off the floor. Martin can’t help but notice his outfit is now covered in even more dust-_ _

__… It’s Martin’s coat, too. It’s too much. Martin finds himself overcome by another wave of breathless hysteria. Jon bristles indignantly, and he reckons he probably thinks Martin is mocking him for a completely different reason._ _

__“Right, well, we’ll see about that.” Jon snaps with the finality of someone who thinks they’ve won an argument. He turns to march his way toward the staircase, looking at Martin one last time before heading for the yet-unknown second floor._ _

__“Not if I have any say in it,” Martin mutters to himself. He stays on the floor a little longer before carefully getting back on his feet, still shaken from his… welcoming party, he supposes._ _

__He reaches the chair in front of the fire and nearly lets himself collapse in it._ _

__The simplest form of Gerry looks up at him, face cradled in a palm of green fire. “You know, it’d be a lot easier if you’d just tell them?”_ _

__Martin sighs but shakes his head. “I don’t mind being petty, but I’m not cruel… I’m not going to paint a target on Tim just because of one-... rude little man.”_ _

__Gerry snorts and shrugs. “Well, as I told you, you’re safe here. But it’s your choice.”_ _

__Martin frowns. “How come he didn’t… Would he kick me out if-”_ _

__The fire smirks, just a tad sly. “I told him you were my guest, which is true. He won’t kick you out. Probably.”_ _

__“Probably???”_ _

__“I mean, he could. Technically speaking, there’s not much I could do if he really chose to boot you out, but I don’t think he will, unless you really go out of your way piss him off but, even then.”_ _

__Martin sits quietly as the fire crackles. “I should thank you, I think?”_ _

__He’s pretty sure he sees the yellow-red eyes roll all over the mantle. “You could, sure. I meant what I said. Just keep what we talked about in mind, and I’ll keep you covered.”_ _

__Martin feels himself smile faintly. He nods quietly and a warm silence envelops them._ _

__A series of loud steps rapidly descending down the stairs breaks the moment, and Tim emerges out of the door, arms laden with white packages… some sort of bags?_ _

__“I got us breakfast; today we eat like kings!” He announces like a town crier, shaking the bags to show off his loot._ _

__“Pretty sure kings are as good as paupers nowadays.” Martin hears Gerry grumble from the flames. Tim rattles one of the bags insistently._ _

__“You want your egg sandwich muffin-thing or you want to keep ruining all of my _dazzling_ introductions?” _ _

__“I’m sorry to inform you, but I can multitask. And it’s not ‘dazzling’ if said presentations are just oversaturated with cheap glamour spells.”_ _

__Tim gasps, his lips mouthing silently the word ‘cheap’ in mock-horror. He puts a hand over his chest. “Oh, alright then! I see how it is. I guess there’ll be more victuals for me and-”_ _

__“Give me my egg sandwich, Stoker.” Gerry warns, which seems to be the expected reaction. Tim can barely contain a joyful cackle as he throws a ball of yellow paper at the fire, which is promptly swallowed by the flames. Martin thinks he spies the fire demon’s red teeth tearing through the content of the projectile with gusto._ _

__“Uh heya, buddy? You still around?” Martin turns to see Tim standing a few steps away, moving his gaze across the room._ _

__Martin clears his throat sheepishly. “R-Right here, sorry. The chair.”_ _

__He jumps a little, but beams down at him. “Oh thank the stars. I didn’t know if lord Grumpy was going to do something dumb, glad to see- hear you’re still around.” He winks shamelessly and starts rummaging through his bags. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I picked a couple of things.”_ _

__What the- “That’s really nice of you, but I’m- not very hungry right now?”_ _

__Tim nods, nose still going through his bags. He waves him off dismissively. “That’s a side-effect of this type of magic, you should probably eat something anyway. It’ll help, trust me.”_ _

__Well, he could just say no._ _

__“Alright,” he says anyway. He could probably just toss the food at Gerry when Tim isn’t looking… Seeing how much Gerry enjoyed his share, Martin assumes he wouldn’t tell on him. Ah, well._ _

__

__… It turns out, the weirdly packaged, greasy food Tim hands to him isn’t bad at all. Just very odd… Martin finds himself reaching for seconds._ _

__Tim and Gerry bicker amiably over things Martin struggles to follow- Maybe inside jokes? The wizard had elected to sit on the floor rather than ask for the chair, occasionally throwing a lively gesture in his direction while retelling some encounters he and Jon had since they last swung by the castle._ _

__It’s familiar. It’s new. Martin feels out of place but he doesn’t quite feel like he should pull away…_ _

__Maybe things might just be alright. Today at least._ _

__< 0><0><0>_ _

__The click of a recorder barely echoes in the room. It’s nearly drowned by the monotonous cacophony of similar devices, slowly whirring at the periphery of his vision._ _

__There’s a long exhale before the voice speaks, steady and composed._ _

__“Statement log of Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Statement recorded from the Moving Archives,-” There's the sound of paper being moved as the Archivist’s eyes flicker to a strange little dial on his desk. “November 18th, 2017.”_ _

__There’s the sound of a chair as it creaks under someone’s weight. The continuous churning of the tapes fill the silence._ _

__“Further investigation regarding the fallout of the Circus has brought little into light beyond the information Timothy Stoker and myself have managed to ascertain from their extended neutral divisions. While this particular threat has seemingly receded, for the time being, other groups of similar heft have risen to the occasion and grounded their influence within small communities throughout Ingary. Not so much as to extend their dominion in the vacant chasm left behind by the Others, but rather as to secure strongholds now while there is still time. Opposing groups were witnessed fighting for locations of interest outside of the Capital, though many seem more in favour of cooperation in the coming times;_ _

__“The members of the Council have seemingly realized the seriousness of the impending threat. Individual members have chosen their sides on the matter, which is to say who will oppose the Watcher, and who will not. Judging by the fresh onslaught of national advertising plastered across Kingsbury, and slowly making its way nationwide, it’s fair to assume the most affluent party members have made their choice;_ _

__“The small town located near the Moving Archives has been under the influence of the Forsaken for a considerable amount of time. Not only because of its geographical ties to their patron but also for the duality this _terroir_ generates in its people. My assistant and I are still able to move freely within the limits of the town and its wider area, which is greatly beneficial for the Archives’ defences, but it is my belief that one of their prominent figures has chosen to ally themselves with the Watcher a few months ago and thus has elected a more direct approach to undermine our progress;_ _

__“As we came back to the Archives today, we found an individual heavily marked by the Forsaken, waiting for our return.”_ _

__There is a moment of silence. The sound of a jaw cracking reflectively can be heard._ _

__“Although seemingly nonhostile, the magical signature embedded in the code surrounding him is unmistakable. According to Gerry, the man was a few hours away from vanishing in Lower Folding. He simply happened to roam the area while waiting for our return from Market Chipping when he found yet another victim of the Northern hills. He’d listed a number of reasons why he’d rescued a blatantly obvious Forsaken magic-user within the walls of the castle, despite my personal dislike of them;  
“Chiefly, that it was the right thing to do, among other strategic points, namely that the magic surrounding him could be used to strengthen the Archives’ current defences. He then invoked his right to… ‘have someone over’, seeing as we’ve been admittedly out for an unpredictable length of times lately, and it’s starting to take its toll on him. He deems the individual trustworthy… And for his sake, I will oblige… But I know what I saw.”_ _

__The Archivist takes a deep breath, it comes out nearly as a groan. The whirring sound could almost be mistaken for how loudly his thoughts are churning. He nearly taps his pen on the desk._ _

__“If this individual isn’t an extension of what killed Martin Blackwood, of The Lukas Library, or alternatively a local-bound Lukas agent, then perhaps Gerry is right. I’ve relied on his judgement long enough to trust his expertise, but there is something profoundly wrong and warped within this individual. And I’ve also learned to trust my intuition on these matters, and I know I’m right. The typical Forsaken victim is most unlikely to be skilful enough to break a spell, and certainly not have enough strength left to do so, considering the gravity of this one’s affliction. Unless other influences are meddling underneath the most obvious layer of magic… In which case, I may have to visit the Old Queen… But frankly, I’d rather not;_ _

__“The individual himself, named Keats, obviously a fake name seeing as it bears so signature of its own, shall be staying in the Archives until he’s recovered, as per Gerry’s request. Tim has volunteered himself to… Let’s say, _assuage_ my doubts on the matter by keeping an eye on him for the next few days which, according to him, almost feels like finally getting vacation time.”_ _

__The Archivist huffs and rolls his eyes._ _

__“Hopefully, I’ll manage to scry enough details by then to determine if the so-called ‘Keats’ can be trusted… In the meanwhile, I must trust Gerry’s judgement, and hope he’s right…;_ _

__“And, much to my shame… I very much hope he’s not;_ _

__“End recording.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter might be a tad shorter since this one is longer. We’ll see how this plays out. In any case, I’d rather be careful with the whole “Sophie’s cleaning rampage” in this AU because, well contextually it’s very funny in the book because of reasons I hope I remember to go into next week, but here I’d rather be careful considering the way I’ve coded my characters. I’d rather not encourage negative stigmatization. 
> 
> In any case, I really must thank you guys for your kind words and comments. You really make my heart sing. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, I love you guys so, so much.
> 
> Next Chapter: Have you ever seen a broom like this, Tim?


	10. in which the Great Cleaning of the Archives begins…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In the daytime, you hardly know him; he walks in a borrowed calm."
> 
> \- Erica Jong, _“His Tuning of the Night”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, I say. Yeah right. We’ll see if I can round up my total wordcount over the next few ones instead… 
> 
> It’s been a heavy week and I hope everyone is doing alright. Thank you so much to everyone who commented so far. It really makes a world of difference and I love you guys. And I also love you guys who haven’t commented as well. Actually, if you’re reading this, just know that I love you with all my heart. So please be safe and stay strong. <3
> 
> Before we get started, I’m giving a HUGE shoutout again to [bee_bro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bee_bro/pseuds/bee_bro) on AO3 who drew those [ghibli-gorgeous pictures of Jon](https://22ratonthestreet.tumblr.com/post/619770630414434306/more-art-for-midnightsingvogel-s-fic-the). I can’t get over how pretty they look. Thank you so much! <3<3<3 (and you guys should really check out her fics, they're really sweet and funny)
> 
> Alright, so.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter
> 
> \- Anxiety/Panic  
> \- We can’t let people know we’re COPING  
> \- Misunderstanding and Confrontations  
> \- Tim “Oh Lawd give me strength” Stoker
> 
> Enjoy <3

“Hey Gerry? What is- _Where_ is outside that window?”

It’s been… About a few hours, maybe? To some extent, Martin isn’t sure if he could properly rely on the light coming from outside to tell the time, but the lack of things to busy himself with was slowly but surely driving him up the walls.

At some point, Tim got up from the floor and went to get ‘some work done’ at the bench. Shortly after, the Archivist came downstairs, briefly reconvening with Tim in the kitchen and announced that he would be out for a while. Gerry groaned loudly and told him to ‘get something to eat’ soon, properly puzzling Martin as there was still food left on the cluttered table. Jon rolled his eyes in exasperation and mumbled something. As he opened the door to a literal wall of fog, he told Tim to “watch over the Archives for him”, to which Tim responded with a mock salute. The Archivist shook his head and left without acknowledging Martin in the slightest.

Martin’s eyes had followed the little wispy clouds left in his departure. As they quickly curled into oblivion, his gaze was then drawn to the sunlit window, just a few feet away, still displaying the day to day life of a peaceful town by the sea. 

The full form of Gerry pokes his head out as far as he can to see what Martin was pointing at. “That’d be Porthaven.”

“Isn’t that completely on the other side of Ingary?”

Gerry pretends to think about it. “Technically, yeah. Why do you ask?”

“Well…” Martin looks at the window and door, only belatedly remembering that no-one would see him fumbling- Oh wait, Gerry would... “Last night you found me down the moorlands, so in the Folding Valley… But that window seems to be by the coast? And I think the Archivist just left for the hills too? So, how can we be at two places at the same time?”

Martin would also mention the yellow door from yesterday, but something tells him that one shouldn’t be accounted for. Some nervous part of him reasons that he might just as easily step inside the bathroom and suddenly find himself in the Maze again.

Gerry looks amused despite the neutral draw on his face. Or as neutral as a fire could be… “Oh, we’re not in two different places.”

“Okay?”

“We’re in four.”

Martin looks at him flatly. “Now you’re just messing with me.”

“Oh no, I’m dead serious.” He smirks at some private joke and then nods at the door. “Go ahead, see for yourself. Although I’d avoid the green if I were you.”

Apprehensive but desperate for a distraction, Martin approaches the door as if it might just bite him if he comes too close. He remembers faintly how the metal had felt the night before, or rather how it _didn’t_ felt much under his numb fingers. 

He finds a square-shaped knob affixed over the handle. He’d assumed it had been some sort of lock mechanism, but now he could see different colours painted on each side. Black was facing upward. Blue to its left and red to its right… So green was probably downward? And if Jon went through the mist, well… 

He gingerly turns the knob, meaning to set the blue side downward. It does so with a loud clanking sound of metal over metal, and he carefully opens the door. 

The sun hits him hard as he’s met with the gentle lifestyle of well-walked cobblestone streets. The smell of what has to be the sea drifts up to him, along with the distant murmurs of sailors mooring their ships for the day. A chorus of birds announces their return like a great fanfaronade escorting them back home. A gaggle of children run past the door, screaming as they chase after one another down the gentle slope towards the docks, no doubts going to greet their loved-ones.

A neighbouring woman is dusting off her front steps with purpose, no perhaps preoccupied over a personal matter. She lifts her gaze to him- or through him? He checks- Yes, definitely through him. A few seconds pass and she clutches her broom harder, frowning challengingly at where he should be standing in the doorway. 

Martin takes his cue and closes the door as unsuspiciously as possible. 

“So that’d be Porthaven.” He hears Gerry call behind him, a bit of humour in his voice. “I can move the castle somewhere safer while you check the other ones, so you can also see the green portal as well.” 

“Is one of them going to open the yellow door?” He asks, his voice crinkling a little higher in trepidation.

He can almost feel the fire quirk an inquisitive brow. “You did mention the Maze earlier.” He states reflectively. “The short answer is no, this door doesn’t. Or rather, it won’t open for you. Jon can summon an access to the Maze, but Jon can only navigate it _somewhat_ safely because… He’s the Archivist.” He says, grimacing a little.

“And what does that mean? Was he awarded with a lifetime permit to pass through the Maze?”

Gerry lets out a short laugh. “No, he just sees things… differently.”

Whatever that means. “So… Nothing chases after him?”

Gerry inspects him as closely as he could from where he stood. “Well, the Maze has its own agenda, but half the time it’s generally not very happy to find him there. Imagine you find something akin to one of those hard candies you can’t just chomp down on, and then you realize it’s actually a pebble.”

From the lower landing, Martin hears Tim calling from the kitchen. “Does he know you call him _eye candy_ when he’s not around?”

“That’s not what I said and you know it!” 

A little more reassured, Martin turns the knob, red down, and opens the door. 

Martin has to cover his eyes again, but they don’t acclimate as quickly this time. 

Behind the red stands imposing buildings. Tall spires made of dark beams and gold veins and white stones. Though they stand some distance away, Martin still needs to crane his neck to see them in their entirety. 

What appears to be a plaza separates the various buildings, where passer-bys donned in the finest attires he’s ever seen meander to their intended destination at a leisurely pace. Martin thinks their clothes could easily drive the richest person in Market Chipping straight into bankruptcy. 

The difference between this place and Market Chipping is nearly staggering now, almost giving him the impression of being in a wholly different country. 

Martin wonders if his town had a gleam like this to any outsider, long before it lost all its colours… 

There is so much luxury displayed in this single, it reminds him of the bright and flashing colours of May Day, except this here seems to be the norm. He thinks he spots a woman walking her pet on a leash inlaid with sparkling gems. There is music nearby and people clapping enthusiastically. His gaze lands on bright jewellery and needless flaunting of wealth at every turn. People are laughing high and bright, like they didn’t have a care in the world. There were a lot more people now than a few seconds ago… 

A horseless chariot crosses the plaza with broad letters written on its side. Its driver speaks in what had to be a voice amplifier, spouting nonsense over civil duties, the glory of their land, and the benefits of one member of the Council over the others, the ills of ones and the failings of some. One of the names Martin recognizes all too well is particularly painted in the most favourable light for his exceptional support of the communities in the northern side of the country… 

There’s a couple standing nearby, laughing detestably at something the crier said. Martin finds himself clutching so hard at the doorway, he can _almost_ feel his fingers. There are so many idle smiles and animated conversations, like those people knew what they were talking about, and more came to join in. Like this was all just an exciting game to them and none of those men and women had anything to do with monsters in disguise, preying on distant towns they would never visit, practically fictional names to their lavish lives… 

Someone in the crowd turns to look directly at him. And smiles.

Martin practically slams the door.

He finds it difficult to breathe as he stands there, facing the door. It’s barely a relief to hear his heart pounding so loudly in his ears at this point, but he still has to lean his forehead against the door to get his nerves back into control.

“Hey K-man, are you alright over there?” Comes the carefully friendly voice of Tim behind him. Martin lets out a shaky laugh.

“Oh yeah! Yes, I’m perfectly fine. Can’t you _see_?” He answers with a large gesture, not as calmly as he might think. 

“Sooo, you’re not upset or anything?”

“Of course! Why would you ask that?”

He points a finger down. “You’re making a lot of smoke.”

Martin looks down.

Sure enough, the door’s landing quickly fills with fog. It would practically reach his knees at this point if he could see them.

He lets out another startled gasp, climbing up the stairs as quickly as he could and somewhat tripping in his hurry. The fog makes a vain effort to hold onto his ankle but it lets go easily. Still, the barely sluggish attempt is enough to unleash a true well of fury he has barely delved into since-... ever, in his life. It’s only been mounting up until this very moment.

“That’s it! I’ve had enough of you!” Martin grits viciously. The image of the woman dusting her steps furiously flashes in his mind and he finds himself marching to what had to be the broom closet. SURELY there was a broom in there, and not just those useless tubes… 

After some significant trashing and digging, Martin emerges with the single object he could recognize in that capharnaum, a nearly unused besom, and crosses the living area to sweep mercilessly at the remaining plumes of damp, calling the damned thing all manners of vile while banishing it away. 

When he looks up, he sees Tim standing by the hearth, he and Gerry carrying a lengthy conversation solely through grimaces and eyebrows. 

They both look up at him at the same time. Tim a little to the right.

“Feeling better?” Gerry asks the way he usually does: too observant for his own good. Right now, it’s irritating.

Martin takes a moment to calm down and try to put a name to how he feels. 

Try to put a _sense_ to any of this.

“Shit, he’s having a breakdown.” He barely hears Gerry whisper to Tim, who looks in his direction a little helplessly.

“I’m not-” He breathes in. “Everything is _awful_ and I’m _fine_ and- You know what? Maybe I _DO_ feel a little better! Maybe all I need to do is some more of that! So if you don’t mind, I’ll get rid of every speckle of dust in this sorry excuse for a- what did he call it- an _Archives??_ And maybe then it won’t feel like I’m swallowing a full dustpan of _grime_ every time I take a breath, _maybe then_ I’ll actually _FEEL_ better!”

His tirade is met with resounding silence, save for the constant crackling of the fire. Tim looks focused and wary. Gerry seems to try and follow his logic. They both share a wide-eyed look. 

They turn back to him. He might just start yelling at them if they keep doing that-

“Alright so, you get angry when you’re upset! Good to know. So _earlier _wasn’t you being… upset. We’re getting somewhere!” Tim cringes through a smile, clearly a bit at a loss and doing his best to help someone he couldn’t even _see_. __

__“Well… I don’t think the place has been cleaned in… well-over 40 years?” Gerry still seems wary but he glances at the ceiling beams unhappily._ _

__“Jon has been living like this for 40 years?” Martin’s voice raises in outrage, still riled up and unwilling to let go of anything that might fuel his next goal._ _

__Gerry looks at him, expression unreadable, “No, he hasn’t.” He says curtly. Tim stands next to him with his head tilted, like something very important just occurred to him. Gerry’s sharp tone nearly throws Martin out of his self-induced anger. “Gertrude had too many irons in the fire to worry about something as trivial as _cleaning_. And Jon learned soon enough that you cannot just open all the windows, slapdash together a localized dust devil spell and expect the room to be completely unscathed afterwards.” _ _

__Tim’s jaw suddenly drops, torn between utter delight and shock. “Wait, he did _what?!_ How did he even manage that??”_ _

__Martin feels his fingers tighten around the besom’s handle. Unbelievable. And he _said_ he cared about books-... _ _

__“Gerry, don’t ignore me now-”_ _

__“Right, I’m getting a bucket. And all your rags.”_ _

__Tim looks at him, expression frozen half in horror. “Wait, you mean right now?”_ _

__“The sooner the better!” Martin says, bright and barely holding himself together._ _

__< 0><0><0>_ _

__And their new resident held true to his words._ _

__For the next few hours, the man went on a cleaning rampage everywhere, grumbling spitefully at the target of his ire and the non-negligible state of neglect the castle was in. From where he was sitting by the fire, Tim could see him wipe the kitchen cupboards with a vengeance, like every piece of cutlery and every foreign, half-broken gadget Jon forgot at the back of a shelf had personally offended the forsaken man. He asked Tim to empty the workbench so he could scrub off the dark lines of soot and random substances that eventually became a familiar sight on their workstation. Just watching the vindictive back and forth of the brush on the bench made Tim think their guest was actively trying to skin someone alive._ _

__Note to self: do not attempt shenanigans on the ghostly man while he’s armed with any cleaning supplies._ _

__He’s never seen dust bunnies run so fast for their lives. Entire families, generations of tumbling cat hair, gone! There were no cobwebs or no spiders, of course, but he knew the worst was yet to come. Tim wasn’t looking forward to the ‘Great Cleaning’ of the main area, and Gerry didn’t look particularly enthused about it either. If anything, he almost seemed to regret inviting the ailing man to stay. Or maybe that was just Tim projecting. Just a tiny bit._ _

__It’s not that he personally _minded_. He was just miserable about it _right now_._ _

__When he seems to be somewhat satisfied with the kitchen, Tim sees the besom and the bucket head straight for the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind them._ _

__The wizard cringes at that. “Oh, dear…”_ _

__“What, you’re worried he might switch up a few of your products and you’ll have the tedious task of _reading_ them in the middle of your showers?”_ _

__“What? No. I just hope he doesn’t throw anything…”_ _

__“Like the bottle clearly labelled _‘For Decay’_?”_ _

__“Hey, how do you know about that one? Did Jon tell you it was mine?”_ _

__Gerry’s face looks carefully neutral. “... Maybe? Is it not?”_ _

__“I would _never_!” He presses a hand to his chest. “But I reckon the ‘DRYING POWER’ flask might be a little weird to our new friend.”_ _

__The fire’s green brows furrow suspiciously. “And what’s that bottle supposed to be for?”_ _

__Tim tries to be the picture of innocence, he’s very good at that. “Obviously, I purposely mislabeled it. It’s drying _powder_.”_ _

__“Oh no, Stoker. I know you.” Gerry says ominously. “You leave things as literal as possible if you think it’s going to be funny.”_ _

__Tim wisely remains silent at this very well-founded accusation._ _

__“Which means, that one time there was a small hurricane in the bathroom and Jon came flying out of it-”_ _

__“-So MAYBE I shouldn’t mislabel my products! I ran out of space and I couldn’t be bothered to fix it, can you blame me?”_ _

__“Then don’t write in all-caps.”_ _

__“Jon shouldn’t touch my things if he doesn’t know what they’re for-” Tim cuts himself short and slowly moves to steeple his hands over his chin._ _

__“Stoker…” Gerry warns after a few seconds._ _

__“Hm? Oh, I’m just thinking. Juuuuust thinking.”_ _

__“A dangerous pastime.”_ _

__“Hey now, it’s not my fault _Jon_ makes it a dangerous pastime!”_ _

__Gerry opens his purple lips to reply and instead elects to say nothing. Tim knows he’s won this one._ _

__A warm lull settles as a one-man cleaning team furiously scrubs at whatever might stand against him in the small room. Tim knows it’s not _awful_ , though maybe his ageing mother would disagree. Tim produces enough steam to require a proper cleaning of the room fairly regularly, though he’ll admit to cheating at it. The castle might be bespelled against critters and crawlies of most kinds, but it was a bit harder to hex the pipes against the more insidious forms of… Cleansers. _ _

__They haven’t seen any worm for a while now, so Tim will count his blessings, as lukewarm as they may be._ _

__“Tell me,” Tim says conversationally, eager to move to less repulsive thoughts. He tilts his chin in the direction of the bathroom. “Was I _that_ bad when I first came here?”_ _

__Gerry half-grimaces reflectively. “I don’t think you two are on the same scale at all, but you were pretty bad off yourself, yes. Though I suppose this reaction is technically a good sign.”_ _

__“Right, that’s the same as his immune system fighting back, except for magic, isn’t it?”_ _

__“Why must you vulgarize everything?”_ _

__“Hey, you’re the one who compared Jon to a pebble!”_ _

__This time, Gerry does chuckle low. Another point for Stoker._ _

__“I guess you’re not entirely wrong,” he concedes with a crooked smirk._ _

__Tim chuckles until an earlier thought comes back to him. He figures there’s not much time left before the dust starts raining around them again and he needs to shield himself and Gerry against the worst of it._ _

__“Gerry. If I ask you something, will you answer me truthfully?”_ _

__The fire demon quirks a brow, considering him._ _

__“I may choose not to answer, but I won’t lie to you.”_ _

__Tim nods, that seems fair enough. It’s worth asking. “... I heard you said Jon’s name when you talked with ‘Keats’ earlier, and presumably yesterday. I guess he probably heard me say it too… But, when Jon asked me to leave so he could have his little heart-to-dumbass conversation… Did he personally introduce himself to him?”_ _

__Gerry slightly purses his lips. He does this thing, like Jon, where he works his jaw on the right side when he’s internally debating with himself._ _

__He huffs a deep breath over the flames, it sparks blue flickers around him. “No, he didn’t.”_ _

__They both share a look before the bathroom’s knob jiggles and turns. And out comes a cloud of steam and the clanking of the dreaded bucket and soap._ _

__“Alright, the rags are soaking in the sink so I don’t recommend any of you using the bathroom for a bit.”_ _

__Tim blinks, a thought occurs to him. “Heya buddy, what are you soaking them in right now?”_ _

__He still can’t really see him, but the besom moves around the kitchen._ _

__“I found a jar labelled ‘refreshing’?”_ _

__Tim stands up, not even bothering to dust off his pants as he bee-lines to the bathtub._ _

__“How much did you use???”_ _

__“Well… There wasn’t a lot left?”_ _

__Tim bemoans his childish grief as he sees the squares of fabric floating in a pond of deep blue water._ _

__“My hair dye!”_ _

__< 0><0><0>_ _

__It’s very late when the front door opens again._ _

__Martin was still keyed up with too much energy for his own peace of mind, already planning what he would most likely have time to get done the next day. But he’d agreed to complete his colossal task over several days and not in one sleepless, one-track-minded binge._ _

__The exertion felt… odd, but not unpleasant. Like relearning to use a muscle. Which was silly. He’s used those muscles all the time until he reached the castle. Something felt different, though… And a small part of him couldn’t tell if the itch came from his restlessness or…_ _

__Martin had experimentally tightened his fingers and heard a subtle, stomach-dropping tearing sound that was nowhere near that of normal ageing joint._ _

__His attention is quickly pulled away when the Archivist steps into the living area, draped in that sad grey oversized coat, and for a moment his eyes land on Martin._ _

__And then they slip away, scanning suspiciously over all the open space he could see._ _

__He looks sternly in the direction of the kitchen and then turns to Gerry. “What did he do?”_ _

__Martin, though tired, or perhaps maybe because of how exhausted he feels, lets out a sour laugh. It makes the scratching at the back of his throat sound like screaming tea kettle. “Oh please, don’t ignore me on my behalf. Welcome back, Archivist. I’m doing great, thank you very much.” He rambles on bitterly._ _

__Jon’s face tightens. Martin hears Gerry shifts and adds, “You don’t need to be rude. It’s just done some cleaning. He’s got itchy feet, can you blame him?”_ _

__“Right.” He says doubtfully, finally looks at Martin with his piercing dark eyes. “And where might Tim be?”_ _

__Martin feels himself bristle at the implied accusation, but before he can give the crabby man a piece of his mind, the bathroom door slams open and Tim himself walks out with his arms open._ _

__“Boss! Welcome back!”_ _

__Jon stares at him, a mix of dumbfoundedness and irritation frozen on his face. When he fails to answer his greetings, Tim shakes his long sleeves to get his attention._ _

__“Well? What do you think?”_ _

__Jon finally startles back, tilting his head upward to stare at the Titan in the room._ _

__“Tim, what happened to your hair?”_ _

__Tim gives one of those loud, joyful laughs he seems to use whenever something troubles him. “Oh see, our friend here gave me a _fantastic_ idea today-”_ _

__“I did?”_ _

__“Ye-up! Annnd here’s the result!” He brushes a hand through his rainbow-coloured strands. Admittedly, it did look incredible with his already brightly coloured clothes._ _

__After a few beats, the ridiculousness of the distraction seems to reach Jon in waves, who then turns a suspicious look at the three of them._ _

__“Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying your time off, Tim. It looks very nice.” He says tightly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He makes a start for the stairs, then stops. He looks at Martin’s direction with a raised eyebrow. “You didn’t move anything important, did you?”_ _

__“Of course not.” Martin lies through his teeth, more out of spite than fear. “Wouldn’t dream of it, unless you consider dust coating an intrinsic part of your castle?”_ _

__“Of course not,” He sneers, maybe a bit uncomfortable? “But we wouldn’t want anything to go _missing_ now, wouldn’t we?”_ _

__Oh, that rude little… “Oh, maybe you’d rather I just stay put in that chair and let myself waste away?”_ _

__Jon’s face grows hard at that, Martin doesn’t let himself feel bad for striking a nerve. “Now, that is _not _what I said.” He nearly hisses, his face darkening. Martin expects him to go on a long-winded tirade but he seems to bite off whatever cutting remarks he had in store.___ _

____After a deep, calming breath, he turns to Tim, speaking as evenly as a raging storm outside an airtight window. The walls are shaking but the glass is perfectly fine “Come with me, I have a folding bed and a spare mattress I’m not currently using, we can put them in the arched space under the stairs.” He turns and leaves the room, acknowledging neither Gerry nor Martin as the door closes behind him._ _ _ _

____Tim turns to them with his hands raised, a flummoxed smile plastered on his face. “I think it went well?”_ _ _ _

____He soon follows the Archivist upstairs, briefly leaving Martin and Gerry alone._ _ _ _

____Gerry’s sigh cuts through the quiet crackling of the fire. “You shouldn’t antagonize him.”_ _ _ _

____Martin huffs. “Me?? Antagonizing him??? Have you heard a single word he said?”_ _ _ _

____“And he shouldn’t antagonize you either, but that’s beside the point.” Gerry shifts in the flames, bearing flinty eyes on him. “I don’t know what you saw through the Kingsbury door, I can barely see anything outside the castle, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out you’re angry.”_ _ _ _

____Martin laughs hollowly, it comes out more wet than expected. “Anything else you want to share? For transparency’s sake?”_ _ _ _

____Gerry opens his mouth and snaps it flat, bearing long-suffering eyes on him. His stare mollifies slightly as he pays close attention to Martin. “I don’t mind you venting, so long as you don’t actually bury me in dust and debris.”_ _ _ _

____That thought alone makes his heart jump. “I won’t! I wouldn’t, that’s just awful-!”_ _ _ _

____“Easy…” Gerry gives him a look and shakes his head. “Try not to take it out on us, too. Talking helps unravel the knots, so talk if you need to. Don’t let them consume you.”_ _ _ _

____Martin quietly stares at where his hands should be._ _ _ _

____Gerry’s voice breaks the heavy silence again, his voice no louder than the soft hissing of the wood. “Keats?”_ _ _ _

____He doesn’t reply, but Gerry continues regardless, softer than any infernal creature ought to be. “What are you feeling?”_ _ _ _

____That question runs through Martin’s mind the same way his thoughts had felt both nebulous and suffocating in the Maze. Or how they’d swam in and out of focus as he laid down in the cold desolated remains of his life._ _ _ _

____Martin sits in a warm chair now, with something like half a life in his hands, and he can hardly see what lies ahead._ _ _ _

____“I think I’m grieving?”_ _ _ _

____Gerry nods solemnly. “Here’s a start, I guess.” After a beat, the fire adds, conversationally. “Also, you might want to take off that coat if you’re going to sleep.”_ _ _ _

____… where did that come from, “Uh?”_ _ _ _

____“Yeahhh so, I think it’s covered in mud? You’ve been leaving trails of it the whole day. I wasn’t sure how to tell you, but it was pretty funny to watch you clean in circles.”_ _ _ _

____Martin stares at his deadpan face and then groans in his hands, a quivering smile on his face. “You dick, I couldn’t figure out where it came from and you just let me keep going.” He tries not to laugh and finally elects to head to the bathroom._ _ _ _

____Once the door closes, Martin puts his hands on the porcelain sink and stares at the empty space in the mirror. Nothing meets him, of course._ _ _ _

____He takes a deep breath, gripping the sink a little harder to feel his fingers._ _ _ _

____“Alright, Martin. You _were_ good at planning, right? Let’s make a new plan.”_ _ _ _

____< 0><0><0>_ _ _ _

____A loud click introduces a chirping choir of soft whirring sounds. A door opens and two sets of feet walk onto the wooden floor, heading for a small storage space to the side. One of them stands a little distance away while the other rummages in what might be a heap of clothes._ _ _ _

____“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” One of them says, his voice sounds a little faint as he takes in the sight before him._ _ _ _

____The other one, the Archivist, doesn’t comment on it, but grumbles as he doubles his efforts to dig out the target of his search. He finally makes a victorious ‘ah-ha!’ and pulls out a metallic contraption, unfolding it awkwardly to test its sturdiness._ _ _ _

____At the lasting silence, the first one exhales harshly, shaking his head. “He’s really alright, you know? You don’t need to be a dick about it.”_ _ _ _

____The Archivist stops his inspection and the room is nearly silent for a moment until a long, weary sigh comes out of the Archivist. The bed creaks under the other one’s weight, sitting beside the Archivist._ _ _ _

____“There’s something else, isn’t there?”_ _ _ _

____The Archivist doesn’t reply right away, but the faint sound of shifting suggests he shakes his head._ _ _ _

____“So it appears our contact at the Council, Basira Hussain, has left the Capital a few weeks ago. Apparently she had received news of her betrothed being still alive, despite months of radio silence after her sudden disappearance, and she went to authentify those claims herself.”_ _ _ _

____“... I think you said ‘radio’ was something about distance communication without magic, yeah?”_ _ _ _

____The Archivist huffs a tired laugh and the other adds, “I’m trying to follow! Sorry, please go ahead. Who’s her betrothed, maybe I know them?”_ _ _ _

____“It’s Daisy.”_ _ _ _

____It would be a deafening silence if not for the constant whirring around them._ _ _ _

____The Archivist shakes his head. “I can’t find her. Them. There’s someone interfering and I’m running out of resources. Now I can’t keep in touch with Kingsbury through traditional means, meaning I’ll require more magic to stay informed with the escalations taking place there, and Gerry has a _pet project_ and then you’re on his side-”_ _ _ _

____There’s a huge grin in the assistant’s voice as he cuts off his rant. “By the stars, you’re jealous!”_ _ _ _

____“No.” The Archivist answers quickly. Too quickly. “Don’t be ridiculous. I have bigger problems than petty, childish domestic _squabbles_ to worry about.”_ _ _ _

____There’s a thumping sound as the second one puts a hand over his chest. “Aw Jon, I knew you’d fall for my charms one day.” He _oofes_ as a sharp elbow digs into his ribs. _ _ _ _

____“Quiet you insufferable man…” The Archivist mumbles with some levity. The other one chuckles as he shakes his head. “... But perhaps there is some truth to that.”_ _ _ _

____A big gasp shoots through the room. The second man has an impressive lung capacity and he makes sure to fill every inch of them until the Archivist utters a threatening “don’t” and all the air escapes him in small bursts. The room feels unnaturally warmer._ _ _ _

____“Come on, let me have this.” He says with mirth, nudging him amiably. “For an open book, you don’t let yourself be read easily.” A short sizzling sound occurs as he winks and nudges more at the Archivist, who gives him his flattest look._ _ _ _

____“That’s very much the point, yes.” He says and sighs heavily. “... I know you came to live here because of strenuous circumstances. And I’m… grateful to have you here.”_ _ _ _

____The other one takes a moment to answer, but his voice is sincere when he speaks. “I’m glad to be here.”_ _ _ _

____“So I wouldn’t forgive myself if something happened and you were… gone, like the others.” The Archivist stays perfectly still as he speaks his truth to the room of whispers._ _ _ _

____There’s a sound of shuffling and the other one pulls the Archivist in a one-armed hug. The bed makes a jarring noise as he leans his head on the taller man’s shoulder and exhales in defeat._ _ _ _

____“Alright, I see where you’re at.” The other one says. “I don’t want to go either, so I’ll be careful. But, Jon?”_ _ _ _

____The Archivist makes a tired sound of acknowledgement and the other asks, “Do you trust me?”_ _ _ _

____It takes a moment for the Archivist to answer, either because of discomfort or apprehension. “That’s a dangerous question. I suppose I do. Why?”_ _ _ _

____The other one hesitates and then says, “I think I caught a few context clues concerning our mystery friend. Gerry won’t say more, but I think he’s fairly well informed on his situation. I know you trust him and I _know_ you trust me, you cagey man. So just… Let him be? You gave me a chance when I almost burnt down your Archives, I don’t think he’s going to harm anyone if his only way to deal with this situation is cleaning up the castle?”_ _ _ _

____“Right, we just so happen to be awarded the cleanest ghost on this side of the universe precisely when we’re investigating the Forsaken, like that’s not suspicious at all.” The Archivist mumbles, but there’s no true ire behind his words. “I know you’re right. It’s… Difficult, is all.”_ _ _ _

____He pats his shoulder comfortingly. “I know. Just don’t take it out on the guy, yeah? And I’ll see what I can find tomorrow with location spells, maybe there’s something we’re missing.”_ _ _ _

____The Archivist nods and the room is quiet for a moment._ _ _ _

____“So… What’s this I heard about you and dust devils?”_ _ _ _

____The bed creaks. “Right, let’s get this downstairs.”_ _ _ _

____Another creak, just as quick. “Hey now, you’re all about first account retelling. Tell me how the _hell_ you managed that?”_ _ _ _

____They bicker back and forth as they exit the room with the objects of their search. Back and forth all the way down until the door closes in the distance. The whirring grows louder and louder as the minutes go by, and at last comes the sound of footsteps returning to the room. The door closes and all that’s left are the Archivist’s breathing and the everlasting crinkling of spinning tapes._ _ _ _

____Something gets his attention and the static rises as the Archivist approaches the recording device on his desk, recording everything away, as it should._ _ _ _

____He sighs deeply. “Haven’t you had enough today?” he says and clicks the device off._ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So essentially I’ve somewhat divided the “cleaning rampage” chapter in two parts, since it takes place over several days anyway. There’s a lot going on at once and a lot needs to be addressed. Howl might be the type to ignore something and hope it goes away but you can bet Jon ISN’T.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I love you all. You guys make my heart sing.
> 
> Next chapter: Martin finds the tea cabinet. What will he do...


	11. in which there's a lot more cleaning and clearing…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m very late and I’m sorry about that. I kept finding dead bumblebees in my basement and (spiralling paranoia aside) I decided this was a sign that I was overworking myself. We still don’t know where they came from. Also, I hate my boss and my work messes up any writing schedule I try to keep. All this to say, I don’t know if I’ll be able to post weekly again for the next two months, so I love and appreciate all of you who have kept my spirits up with wonderful comments and kudos. It’s… very silly but it means I lot. I adore you guys, y’all have some great tastes. Anyway, on with the show.
> 
> Warnings for this Chapter:
> 
> \- Unresolved tension  
> \- L… Lore (it's a surprise tool for later)  
> \- Discussions of Identity and Magic (Stranger)  
> \- Lonely-aligned typical depression and ideation
> 
> Enjoy <3<3<3

It didn’t exactly go smoothly from that point on, but it was _going_ and that’s all that mattered to Martin for the next couple days. Keeping busy… Helped. 

Martin hadn’t considered how such a huge… construction, bent and crooked as it may be, held merely the comparable size of a small cottage house within itself. Then again, that was probably what you should expect from magic shenanigans and the sorts. If magic-users could bend the world to their wills, or so they said, this one oddity was probably quite tame in comparison. Four rooms were thankfully more manageable than what he would have expected a few… months ago? From a distance, the castle looked absolutely _massive_.

Oh, he really should ask what today’s date was, but even that filled him with apprehension. A faint voice convinced him that the knowledge wouldn’t hurt him if he remained unaware of it.

Nevertheless, four rooms didn’t sound like an impossible feat.

The second day of his stay in the castle, Martin found a lot more supplies in the broom closet. He knew for a fact they hadn’t been there the day before. Bracing himself for the task ahead, he outright refused to question their origin and armed himself with... everything. He must have looked like some sort of avenging cleaner readying themselves for a colossal trial. And, well, it WASN’T so monumental, but making preparations of that sort brought him some peace of mind. Maybe the spontaneous tools were some sort of _magical_ blessing from the so-called _magical_ abode itself? 

… Alright, that may have been a silly line of thought, but you really couldn’t rule it out when magic was concerned. Just wishful thinking. Unless he was given proof of the contrary, he'd just roll with it until he ran into a wall, and then he’d find a way to scramble over it. 

Martin threw himself into work with a zeal reserved for angry aunts seeking retribution for their jilted niblings and the sheer fury one feels when they realize someone sullied their freshly mopped floor right after they were just done cleaning it. Now, Martin admittedly can only blame himself for that last one, but he thinks it would be a reasonable cause for aggravation, regardless of who was to blame. 

For Martin might have been _thorough_ in his cleaning rampage, his method was a bit… lacking. He went first for what felt the most urgent or easily achievable and didn’t consider the fact that the next task might ruin his completed progress. 

Sweeping off the dark ceiling beams _after_ cleaning the floors was a regrettable choice as more dust fell down. The little not-quite humanoid shapes hanging on strings waved their amusement at him among the drying herbs and the glossy little black ribbons bidding them. They promptly stopped as he glared daggers over every single one of them. 

“You all behave now or I’ll soak you all in the tub with the dirty rags.”

They stopped jiggling in his general direction, but Martin still felt like they were watching his goings with trepidation and glee. 

The occasional mishaps of his project only made him double his efforts. The entire ordeal was both riling him up and calming him down in turns.

It did give him something to do after all, and though he eyed the bookshelves longingly, fingers twitching at the mere thought of them, a part of him didn’t quite dare to touch their leathery spines. Though he still felt numb at times, looking at the books for too long felt like something was scratching at the back of his ribcage.

That night when the Archivist returns, he hardly has the time to give him a suspicious look before a fit of sneezing takes hold of his entire body, sending his thick hair flying over his head as he doubles over.

“Did it not cross your mind you could have opened a window at _any_ point of your endeavour?” He berates with some difficulty, clearly trying to hold back another sneeze.

Martin doesn’t grit his teeth, but it’s a near thing. “I thought I wouldn't subject those poor people outside to the colony of dust motes you had growing up around the rafters. Some of them seemed big enough to endanger the life of a small child.”

In truth, the idea of opening a window hadn’t even crossed his mind. Jon opens his mouth to reply with his own quip when words seem to fail him. He gives a caustic look at the shelves instead, Martin is very confused.

“Fine then,” he says, still looking for invisible damages left in the wake of Martin’s storm. “How did you get rid of it?”

“Get rid of what?”

“The dust,” The Archivist says, crossing his arms. 

That… Martin doesn’t reply. He’s been so focused on his tasks, the details seem to elude him now that he’s being quizzed about it. He thinks he opened the… door? No, no that wasn’t it… 

The Archivist turns a suspicious look at the hearth. Gerry frowns back and rolls his eyes.

“Hey man, don’t get me involved in this. I haven’t been able to breathe the entire day.”

Jon puts his hands on his hips. “I’m fairly certain that’s not one of your earthly concerns.”

“Hey now, I can still choke on dust like anyone else, there’s no need to be heartless about it.”

Jon’s face goes carefully composed, eyes flinty. Gerry’s lips twist into a grin so sharp that for a second he almost thinks it split off his face in two. Martin has no idea what’s going on. 

“Well, I suppose,” Jon enunciates pointedly. “I have the right disposition to criticize your questionable attempts at humour. Either you’re spending too much time with Tim, or he with you, and I cannot say which is worse. Speaking of bad humour, where is he?”

Ah… More inside jokes he isn’t privy to. Wonderful. 

Gerry shrugs, completely unaffected by the Archivist’s critique. “I reckon he probably bit the dust and left for a better world?”

Jon’s eyebrows go through a wide range of emotions before settling on an exasperated frown. “Very, very funny. I hope he brought some appropriate notes with him this time-” Jon grumbles and stops, besieged by another fit of sneezing. He curses, throwing a vicious look in Martin’s direction, and absconds upstairs, no doubt muttering a few choice words the whole way up. Martin hears a door slam shut and a small, petty smile blooms on his face. 

… Alright, perhaps he shouldn’t find as much satisfaction in causing the Archivist inconveniences, but he still finds himself chuckling at the silliness of the situation he caused. Between his drifting thoughts and the dulled thrumming of his resting body, Martin wonders… wonders, wonders……

The next day follows the same patterns of trials and errors and gentle bantering with the spirit in the hearth when evening comes. Martin learns that Gerry likes to sit in companionable silence, but seems willing to answer his increasing volleys of questions. 

“Which part of the castle are the Archives, exactly?” He turns to see the fire seemingly lost in thought. Martin doesn’t let himself fumble as he elaborates. “The Archivist mentioned them a few times already?”

Gerry tilts his head and speaks matter-of-factly. “The whole thing.”

“... You mean the whole castle?”

Gerry shrugs, “Why do you think he’s called the Archivist?”

That’s... a good point. 

“I guess… I just thought he liked the title? Or- I don’t know. Magic-users are known to be eccentric. Everyone just called this place a castle?” 

The fire looks almost... wistful? No, there’s an edge of bitter irony in his smirk. He exhales, bolstering the cool flames around him. “There’s probably a bit of that, too. A title can define someone as much as it can reduce them to what that position entails…” He raises a pointed brow at him. “But I think you’re familiar with that concept?”

Martin chooses not to reply to that. That thought doesn’t sit well with him. “I suppose that makes sense? But- How does that even work? You just gain a title and suddenly you’re someone else? That doesn’t make sense. Some people have lots of titles?”

Gerry grimaces and looks away. “Well, it’s usually not that quick unless magic is involved and, well, sometimes words are just words. It’s all very arbitrary.” He seems to mull over his thoughts for a moment. “Magic affects matter, and this realm is embedded with magic, so you could technically surmise that we are all shaped by it.

“I’m not… entirely sure I follow?”

Gerry gives him a flat look. He grumbles something about Tim and his over-simplifications and tries again. Martin has half a mind to tell everyone how rude muttering is. 

“So magic, yeah?”

“I suppose that’s a good start?” Martin remarks sarcastically. 

“Anyone can do magic, is what people don’t want to hear. It’s a craft like any other, and like any other craft, it comes naturally to some, but you don’t actually need to be gifted, or cursed, to use magic. Even the most ether-blind wizard can use magic as long as they know the mechanics of it, and truth be told those people will often be a lot more intensive in their study of it. You probably heard of the Magnus Institute in the Capital?”

Martin frowns. “I think that rings a bell? That’s some sort of academic association to learn and study magic, isn’t it?”

Gerry sneers acridly like he disapproves of his wording. “That’s how most people would sum it up, yes. That’s where Tim studied a few years ago.”

“And you don’t approuve?”

Martin actually hears a sharp laugh coming from the kitchen area, but Tim doesn’t round the corner to join the conversation. 

Gerry seems to barely hold his contempt in place, it acutely reminds Martin of Jon’s sneer the day before. “There’s an awful lot of magic-users who studied there who just so happened to turn into uncontrollable abominations in the long run, is what I think. An awful lot of them… ” 

He shakes his head. “But that’s not what you asked. As I said, everyone can learn magic. A spell gives it the desired form and most will require an exchange of _something_ to be steadied. The bigger the feat, the higher the cost. Most learners will need to memorize the proper exchange rates to give their magic a shape, be it from items, incantations, or just entire rituals to bring them out of the ether. They can also be performed without those requirements, but magic always has a price. And it _will_ take its toll. It’s wiser to be the one who decides what's given instead of letting it pick at random.” 

He moves his jaw thoughtfully, glancing away. “There are ways to bypass the invocation process at a lesser cost, but most of the time it’s a deathtrap for over-ambitious magic-users. If done properly, they can specialize in a particular branch of magic. However, favouring one tends to bar you off from those of opposite nature and, again, people always forget that _a lesser toll_ doesn’t mean any toll at all. That’s where things get messy…”

Gerry’s serious face seems lost in thought for a moment, his purple lips twisting bitterly. A nameless twinge of sympathy overcomes Martin, who gently prods him out of his blues. “So, about the titles?” 

The fire demon looks up, eyes unreadable. “Right… That was mostly for the mechanics of magic, where magic-users actively seek to use it. It’s very academic and less intuitive… But magic is not all about spells. It’s the way of things and what binds them. It’s understanding the way humans move, and speak, and feel. It has no shape, but it permeates everything with plenty of colours.” He stops for a moment to roll his eyes.” Though Jon might call them _flavours_ , but that’s-” Gerry grimaces. “Anyway, most humans generate a _lot_ of energy without even knowing. It shapes them and in turn, it feeds the ether around them…” 

He gives Martin a piercing stare. “And sometimes that ether gets… Corrupted, let’s say, and it starts to affect the people who move through that space and the whole thing turns into a loop. Soon enough, the environment starts to look like its people, or the other way around.”

From the workbench in the other room comes Tim’s slightly muffled voice again. “Tell him what Jon calls it, it’s funny!”

Gerry lifts his eyes to the chimney in exasperation and raises his voice. “I won’t! It’s only funny because of the way Jon says it!”

“How does he say it?”

“Over-dramatically.” He shakes his purple and green hair. “But all that to say, names hold power, but it’s because humans give them that power. A new name bears no weight while an ancient one can feel like shuddering thunder. Hence, titles can shape someone’s fate if said someone lets it.”

That was a lot of information to process. A thought makes him right himself in the chair. “Wait, how-” He awkwardly bites his lips. They feel chapped and dry. “I mean, a new name is... like a child’s name or-?...”

The spirit’s face is unreadable, but he mostly looks unimpressed. “I mean, if you really want to name yourself Keats, it will eventually gain a, uh- _‘signature’_ , as Jon puts it.” He answers unblinking. 

Martin thinks he feels his cheeks grow warmer, it’s almost enough to startle him. His heart seizes a little. “I don’t- I don’t know what you mean-”

“A lot of people change their names for one that fits them better. It’s what it holds that matters, the signature is just how you shape it.” Gerry cuts him off. “From one individual to another, it can take a varying amount of time before the new name takes proper roots. I’m not telling you this to force your hand, I’m telling you this because everyone present yesterday had the training to see you picked a name at the top of your head. And that’s fine if that’s your name now, but that certainly won’t hasten your recovery and it definitely didn’t help Jon’s first impression of you.” 

Martin stays quiet for a moment, feeling chided. “I’m sure he can find reasons to dislike me anyway.” 

After a moment, Gerry sighs. “It could be a lot easier, you know.” Martin looks at him stubbornly, and he shakes his fiery head. “Well, at least he knows you’re not working for the Others since you could pick a new name and all.”

Martin’s brows fly at the top of his forehead. “Wait, what do you mean?” Gerry gives him a curious look. Martin feels his body sag down on the floor, now eye-level with him. “What do you mean, about the Others?”

The spirit frowns, speaking carefully. “I said he knew you weren’t part of Them. The Others cannot gain a true name, but most importantly they cannot give themselves or someone else one in this realm.” He twists his mouth. “Well, they can, in the right conditions and with the right assistance, but never on their own, not here. Their nature is defined by the fact that their presence is alien to this world.” 

He takes a moment to see Martin’s confused face and clarifies, “You mentioned the Maze, right? Imagine they belong to some kind of place like that, but _here_ is where they want to be. Except ‘here’ doesn’t like them, because they can only consume its ether while being unable to join in. They _literally_ don’t have the physical reality to join in. To inhabitants of this world, they feel _wrong_ not because they fundamentally _are_ , but because people’s passive magic will always recognize that they are not made of flesh and bones, as they are almost exclusively made out of magic. So they’ve learned to hide from mortal eyes and, since this world won’t give them anything willingly, they’ve learned to take what they deem is their fair dues.”

Martin just stares at Gerry who looks at something over his shoulder. “And- How do they feed on the ether if it won’t let them?”

“They need people’s magic to live, so they take people and suck them dry.”

It was said in a deceivingly cheery tone. Martin turns to see Tim, leaning in the doorway with the skull held on his hip. He’s not trying to look at Martin’s approximate location, but his face has a hard smile on it. His usual bright eyes now flat and sharp. 

“They take people and feed on them, in the most _magical_ sense of the words.” The sudden acid in his voice throws Martin for a loop. “Sometimes? they let them go if they’re not hungry anymore, or if the victim has given them what they deemed a fair exchange _according_ to their fucked up metrics of value. Most of the time, they eat them _whole_ , like any other monster roaming the land, and they use the remaining parts to make _more_ of themselves. The ones who go free can _never_ be human again, just like the Others could never be part of this world, so they don’t have much choice but to join their folds or be condemned to a slow, wasting end. Or sometimes, they say they mean well and then they pull the rug from under unsuspecting people’s feet, and it’s so funny to them! _They_ get on with their stolen years and memories, laughing and grinning, and the ones who _pay the price_ for their insatiable hunger are just-”

“ **Tim** ”

Cut off abruptly, Tim is standing tense, very tense. He doesn’t shake but it feels more like a single twitch could make his stillness snap. He looks like he’s hardly breathing as he holds the skull tightly in both of his hands, seemingly unaware that he might crush it any second now.

“You wanna put poor Barnabas on a shelf before you self-combust?” He says almost casually. Martin isn’t sure what to make of the tension in the room, but it’s almost warm enough to get through the layer of coldness around him.

Tim looks like he’s trying to make sense of the words through a wall of noise. He frowns, shakes his head, his face still set harshly though his eyes look a little helpless. He lowers his eyes down at his hands.

“Have you ever been furious at the fate of this world, Barny?” He muses with a joyless smile, idly brushing a thumb over the skull’s forehead. 

Martin awkwardly turns back to Gerry. “Alright, well… You said they could get a name if the right conditions are met?”

Gerry throws an unsubtle glare at Tim, who’s now leaning on the wall. “Technically, yes.”

“So if anyone who isn’t Them can give names and such… Why can’t people just, you know, give them? Give them what they want if that’s all they need to belong?”

The fire observes him a moment. His face looks carefully neutral in the flames, but his eyes do that thing again, where they look much too old for his youthful face. “They can’t. Or rather, it takes a lot of power to do that, more than the common folks know how to handle, and the Others aren’t too keen on powerful witches and wizards. You’d need a sorcerer or a sorceress for that, or whatever fanciful names they pick these days, someone who’s one with magic. There’s only one of them right now who might assist in Ingary, but even _They_ know not to take her prices for granted.”

Martin hears the sound of carefully laid bones placed on the shelf and Tim’s footsteps heading towards the bathroom. The door clicks. Martin hears the sound of running water.

“I mean, what makes her different from other magic-users?”

“Uh. The lazy answer is ‘everything’, but really it’s more like… Sometimes, you get people who can quite literally bend the world to their will. It’s not uncommon, but those who don’t know what they’re capable of can easily fall prey to the monsters roaming the land before they even begin to explore their potential. It’s a specific branch of magic usually taken for granted until its reach has gone so deep it can’t even be fathomed anymore. It… Doesn’t come for free, nothing ever does, but right now the only one powerful enough to weave a place for one of Them into our realm would be her.”

Well, that sounds unfair. Martin bites his lips, his heart in his throat. “Alright… Well, who is she?”

Gerry moves his jaw. “With any luck, someone you’ll never meet.” He stares at Martin in silence. 

He lifts his hand as he feels the need to clarify. “I’m not asking for _me_ just-... Just for a friend.”

Gerry levels an unimpressed brow at him. “ _For a friend?_ ”

Martin exhales a shuddering breath. “I don’t know if she came here and met you. Jon said she met him but I… Well, the Other who took her place said she couldn’t have her life back, and Tim said something along those lines as well. So maybe if-”

“ _Oh._ ” Realization crashes abruptly in the yellow-red eyes. For a moment, Martin thinks he looks his age. “Keats, I’m so sorry.”

It’s… it’s very strange to hear him without an edge of irony in his voice, so sincere with startled kindness or pity in that single statement. For that exact reason, Martin feels his heart melts through his fingers, into hopeless puddles under him. 

He doesn’t hear when Tim leaves the bathroom and goes upstairs. He stays curled up by the fireplace that night. They talked about harmless things afterwards, and for a while longer after. As his cold hands curl against him, Martin cannot tell if Gerry was purposely sparing him the heavier topics or if he was avoiding the discomfort of discussing them with him.

Unsurprisingly, Martin wakes up with his everything hurting the next morning. 

He hears the Archivist open the front door, stop abruptly for a few seconds, then bee-lines toward the kitchen area. He knows Jon opens the weird remote backyard door because of the way the hinges creak in its particular way. Martin contemplates the concept of staying in this terrible position for a little longer when the strange man’s gait announces his hasty return. There’s the sound of plumpy fabric falling somewhere and, after a few more breaths of stillness, the Archivist marches toward the front door again and closes it behind him. 

The telltale chill of the moorland’s November fog licks at Martin’s neck, jerking him awake. He bats off the invisible culprit and grimaces as a painful crick makes itself impossible to ignore in his neck. 

“Oh god, I’m too old for this.”

“Tell me about it.” Gerry’s voice grumbles next to him. The last log falls apart pitifully and Martin reaches over to fetch him a few more. Gerry mutters something vaguely thankful, possibly vulgar, and falls back into embers. 

Martin sighs fondly. He’s hardly a morning person himself, but seeing someone else handling it worse than him is admittedly somewhat endearing.

With a small orchestra of popping bones and worrisome crinkling sounds, Martin stands and stretches as far as he can, dragging his feet to the bathroom before Tim takes a hold of it for the next hour or so. Honestly, he has _no idea_ what sort of skincare routine could possibly take the man so long, but he suspects the answer might be within one of the peculiar flasks and pots scattered across the room. There’s certainly been a few… oddly named ones. Although if he were to trust the labels on some of them, they probably shouldn’t have any businesses being there. 

He likes the writings on them though. Every day he tells himself he doesn't need to read them again, but his eyes still trail over their variety of shapes and sizes. The ones he knows to be Tim’s have this really graceful calligraphy, the sort that’s purposely stylish to impress. It only makes the ostentatious titles on them more baffling, which Martin can admit has become a pretty entertaining guessing game thus far. They were hard to read at first but looking at the style regularly helped.

The other ones, usually smaller and out of the way, have neat little letters labelling them. He has to squint longer to make sense of the words, but his patience and efforts are usually rewarded. They share the same distinctly round handwriting, but each has a unique style that, after inspection, seems to reflect their contents in some dramatically whimsical ways. The one he’s holding doesn’t quite seem to agree with the concept of a straight line as if its letters were about to scatter away at any moment. Another one looks like someone’s idea of legible handwriting, sharp or drippy depending on its direction. One of them was all covered in black with vaguely shimmery white letters. Admittedly, that one gave him nothing but a headache for his trouble, but he was fairly certain it said something along the lines of “fuel”. 

Why would you keep fuel in a bathroom… The lamps on the walls didn’t seem to require any oil to function… 

In any case, Martin likes that they come with a series of helpful notes listing their properties. He likes that so much care goes into their design, it’s charming… 

Martin is reading through yet more extensive notes on the bottle of a rust-removing powder when a knock comes at the door. By some miracle, he narrowly avoids dropping it on the floor.

“Yes, just a moment!” He says. 

Martin thinks if he can’t wipe off the unnaturally bright smile Tim wakes up with every morning (surely he’s doing it on _purpose_!), he can at least try to scrub off the weird, waxy stickiness covering all the windows like someone burnt their cooking oil and let the result congeal over for _years_. He hadn’t even noticed until the floating dust stuck to the glass as it settled… 

In any case, he has work to do. 

Tim goes outside that day, saying something about itchy feet and passes through the door opening to the Folding Valley. Frail little fingers of fog make a feeble attempt in his direction. Martin bats them off with the besom he’s taken to keep nearby. 

“You’d think they’d learn their lesson by now,” He says with venom, cleaning the glass as best he can with what he has on hand. It’s taken him much longer than he would have expected, so he takes a few breaks between each rigorously scrubbed pane. It’s a lovely day outside, much like the last time he opened the door to Porthaven. 

He sighs and picks up the skull. He’s been carrying him along since Tim has gone away and Gerry was a bit too far to have a conversation with. A skull was probably better than talking to books in any case.

“You know, Barnabas is a lovely name. It sounds so noble, maybe a little shy?” The skull says nothing, but he thinks Barnabas sounds like the name of a thoughtful person, so surely he wouldn’t mind listening to his rambling. “Have you ever been to Porthaven? I don’t think I can go right now, but maybe soon… It’s lovely from here. The water is probably cold, but the shore looks nice. Also probably full of rocks, right?” He laughs a little awkwardly, it comes out as a strange whistling sound. 

He stares at the scene long enough to recognize the familiar longing he’s known for well over two years now. Isn’t he just stuck in yet another library now? Who is he kidding, most of his life he’s felt that way. He shakes his head.

“S-... Someone I knew used to tell me how… _whole_ it was. The sea, I mean. How it wouldn’t even matter if you fell in it, and you wouldn’t be able to do anything but let it wash you away and, in turns, all of your worries would soon dissipate as well…” Martin sighs, cocking his head. “Honestly, I think he just didn’t like having to deal with his problems in a sensible way, and I don’t think he really talked about them to anyone but me for some weird reasons. Not that he wanted my opinion.” He grimaces. Peter just didn’t make any sense at all… “But, I suppose I’m venting too, aren’t I? Have you ever thought about how it would feel like to disappear completely, Barnabas?” 

The skull says nothing, Martin cringes at his own query.

“Yeah alright, maybe that’s a little gauche of me.” 

He thinks there’s a soft sadness looking up at him from the empty sockets. He should stop projecting.

“I mean, I can’t say I haven’t… Thought about it. Or think about it. I… don’t know if I can get it to leave one day.”

Martin cleans another bit of the window for a few minutes. Outside, there are two children in the exact same dress, jumping over the worn stones at an alternate beat. There’s someone playing a horn-like instrument close enough that he can hear the sonorous vibration through his fingers as he lays them on the glass. A young man throws his arms around another one who’s clearly just returned to the shore.

Martin lowers his arm and looks at the distant sea.

“I don’t know if the peace of mind he talked about is the same I’ve felt when I-... Before now, but I don’t think I want to be washed away again… I think… this life outside the window, it looks so peaceful and warm? I mean it probably isn’t. It looks like it’s about to start snowing anytime soon, maybe this week. They’re probably like any other town, they have secrets they only talk about in whispers, in the comfort of their homes, they probably keep their aches deep down in their coats so they can trudge through the day… but, I think I’d rather believe in the comfort they find in each others than let this person’s life… this person’s _lies_ be my only-... well, my only _window_ to the world… Does that make sense?”

It’s a silly one-sided conversation, but for some unknown reason, the skull suddenly tips over on its side. It nearly rolls off the edge when Martin catches it with a panicked yelp. His heart still thumping hard in his chest as he moves dear poor Barnabas on a larger surface and goes for the next pane, and then the next, eager to get some of that sunlight inside the Archives as soon as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did say last time there would be tea and unfortunately, I had to push that scene to the next one. I’ve been fumbling with the scene directly after the end of this chapter for like, over a week now so I decided to do the next best thing and drag it a little longer. I’m already looking forward to two _amazing_ horror chapters who keep getting a little bit farther away. Ahhh… WEll, lucky you for you guys, you get more domestic fluff (?) for yet another chapter. Some progress is made. 
> 
> Again, I love you all. So so much. Thank you for reading <3<3<3
> 
> Next Chapter: Tea for real this time. Also talking good. Talking is very good. Why is it hard.


	12. in which dust settles...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello namours <3 There you have it, the god damn scene that gave me so much trouble. I nearly slammed-posted it out of frustration a few days ago but I digress. A Little Progress is still Good Progress.
> 
> I really need to thank all of you for reading. I’ve been overly critical of my writing for the past month and it’s been really heartwarming to read all your comments. I know this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea (AH) but I really do mean it when I say I love you all. Anyway, let’s get back to the show.
> 
> Warnings for this Chapter:
> 
> \- Unresolved tension/ misunderstanding  
> \- Oh yeah Jon's a DICK in this one  
> \- Wacky bullshit magic, magic-users have no common sense  
> \- Comfort/Tea  
> \- Lore disguised as vampire jokes
> 
> I… think that’s all you need to know but like, let me know if I forgot something.
> 
> Enjoy <3<3<3

The Archivist returns just as the sunset drapes long fingers of orange and gold over the yellowing walls. Martin thinks he should do something about them. It feels like the more he cleans, the more he notices things that need fixing. They just keep popping up at this point. 

Jon yelps and covers his eyes quickly as he unthinkingly turns to look directly towards the light. 

“You don’t want to look straight at it, that’s a sure way to go blind,” Martin remarks a tad cheekily. 

Jon throws a reproving glare at him. “Is it _really_? How novel. I’ll be sure to come to you when I need someone’s expertise on photic retinopathy.” He scoffs and turns back to the window, taking a few steps towards it. His eyes squint as they go over its frame. 

“What did you do?” He asks after a moment, with a hint of something Martin couldn’t name in his voice. It makes him nervous.

“I just cleaned them? Don’t you think the room seems a lot brighter now that the light can actually get through?”

The Archivist is looking outside, facing away from him. For all appearances not paying any attention to him, but Martin can hear his grumbling under breath. “..... -hazardous for the Archives…”

“For the Archives?” Martin can’t help but echoes louder. “What, are you worried your books might suffer from too much sunning, whereas you didn’t think the dust would be a problem?”

Jon’s head tilts backwards in what has to be some kind of exasperated eye roll. “Clearly, that’s the worst that could possibly happen to them,” he says sarcastically. Martin feels himself stand up from his chair. 

“Some of us don’t particularly care to sulk in the dark all day, you know. And, besides, they’re as likely to get exposed to direct sunlight as they are to catching fire from Gerry’s embers.”

The Archivist turns his head. “Gerry?”

The fire demon shifts his face out of the flames. “Yeah?”

“Tell Tim to show your _guest_ how to use the fire extinguisher.”

“Mate, you might as well do it. You’re assuming he remembers how to use one. It nearly exploded on him the last time he tried to use it.”

Jon does that backward tilt again, shoulders dropping. “Wizards…” 

Martin takes a deep, unhelpfully calming breath. “I’m still right here, you know.”

Jon swiftly turns to face him. His dark eyes intense as they cut out his invisible outlines. “Right you are, or so you say.”

Martin sets his arms akimbo. “Yes, I do say!”

After a beat, the Archivist folds his arms over his chest. “Alright, let me put it simply: there was a spell on the windows specifically made to evade the eyes of harmful onlookers. There are people who mean us… ill. It’s in our best interest that they do not locate the Archives.”

“Why does it matter to you? You’re hardly there in the first place!”

Jon makes a visible effort to keep his gaze steady. He raises his chin just as his voice dips. “I’m not the one tethered to a fireplace now, am I?” 

Whatever fight has risen in Martin vanishes all at once. After a few more excruciating seconds of silence, Jon shakes his head. 

“I can tell you the spell was quite strong because I was the one who put it there.” He doesn’t take a step forward, but Martin feels the air stiffen as his eyes cannot seem to pull away from his. “It’s not only about the books, although that could easily factor in.” He gestures at Martin. “What I cannot make sense of is why would you go to lengths to stay out of sight while also making it significantly easier for our foes to find us? What are you trying to accomplish here?”

Martin shifts, swallowing hard as the wording reminds him of the curse laid upon him. He barely catches himself from taking a step back in the welcoming folds of oblivion, if only to shake off the heady dregs of shame muddling his thoughts. Instead, he plants his feet on the ground and takes a deep, rattling breath.

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” 

“Oh don’t give me that,” Jon snaps with a sudden sneer.

Martin frowns, taken aback. “What?”

The Archivist’s hands make emphatic gestures as he speaks. It’s nearly distracting. “It wasn’t a sham wizard spell. it’s not something an average person could remove with a few rags and soap!”

His accusation floats for a beat, Martin winces. “I mean, I hate to break it to you…”

He blinks almost comically, his lips thinning. “ _Fine_ , let’s suppose you did just so, then why would you spend…” He blinks again, frowns. “Why would you spend 8 hours, 43 minutes and 9 seconds on two windows?”

If he could flush, he would. The need to pull away under the scrutiny feels like a very good idea right now, or maybe just sink into the floor. Anything to get away. Surely he hadn’t… He hadn’t spent that much time… 

“Well, it’s not like I have anything better to do around here, don’t I?” He says instead.

“ _Well_ , find yourself some benign bauble to tamper with instead!”

“Alright! I’ll just… If you’re worried people will snoop through the windows we can just put up some curtains or something!” 

He scoffs, “Oh that won’t be necessary.”

Scowling back at his tone, Martin watches as Jon moves to the window, pressing his left palm flat over the glass. 

Martin’s stomach drops inexplicably as something swells around them, the air shifting or- rather stops moving entirely, almost as if the moment was frozen in time, suffocating in its stillness. The texture of the window starts to ripple, little pinpricks and goosebumps spreading in waves over the surface with an unexpectedly melodious sound of broken glass chiming in the wind. The prickles darken and soon enough the room dims and dims... 

When he removes his hand, Martin feels released from an overpowering clutch. His breath catches all the way through his cluttered windpipe. He nearly keels over.   
The panes seem thicker now, barely letting the merest glow get through its opaqueness. It dawns on him that the texture will probably make it impossible to remove, let alone see anything through them. Martin stares dumbfounded, heart at his feet and blood simmering to a boil. 

“There, that should do it.” Jon seems unreasonably satisfied with his stunt, brushing the hand he used over his clothes. 

Martin is still looking at the window. 

“Now, is there anything else I should fix before I see myself out for the evening?” He says with enough derision to shake him out of his stupor.

“ _Why_ are you doing this?!”

The Archivist has the audacity to look nonplussed. “I beg your pardon?”

“You didn’t fix _anything_ , you just covered it up with something even worse!”

“It’s not worse, it’s _efficient_.” Jon is back to crossing his arms, though perhaps a touch more defensive. His tone isn’t giving anything but cutting disapproval. “This is a perfectly reasonable solution.”

“I don’t-... Reasonable for whom? Last I checked, you weren’t a vampire!”

Jon’s eyes shot to the ceiling, trying to make sense of that comment, and shakes his head. “Oh well, we’ll be thankful for one thing.” He mutters, rolling his eyes as he starts taking a step toward the stairs. 

Before he knows it, Martin is standing between him and the door, and then as he stands up to the waspish man, he quickly realizes the words are locked down in his chest. Jon has gone completely still, close enough that he needs to crane his head slightly to look at where Martin’s face should be. He looks like he’s expecting the situation to come to blows any second now… 

The tension holds until Martin feels himself deflate. The nascent formulation of threats tastes sour in his mouth. Begging makes his heart grow too large to breathe. The scorn he’s been clinging onto the last few days flails as if blown by the defeated gust exiting his lungs. 

His eyes fall on the floor and catch the little wisp lapping mockingly at his feet. He’s still stuck on trying to find the right words. 

“Why are you upset?”

Martin forces his eyes back on Jon, who has gone from ornery to something… well, still ornery, but it feels like there’s a shivering underside he can’t quite make out. It reminds him of how he looked at him, back in the Library. In the dimness of the room, his dark eyes seem bigger, deep and wide. Faltering rings of gold dance within them, in and out of sight, like a sinuous creature of the depth whose unfathomable body breaks through the surface and dives back down again in its tumultuous well of secrets. Ancient and impatient and- 

“I’m not-”... Martin breaks out of his reverie and sees Jon make a face like he just bit his tongue, only looking away for a second before he settles back to him. “Just _tell me_ what you need someone to hear?”

“Someone?” Martin parrots dumbly, still somewhat transfixed by the sight of the infuriatingly mesmerizing man.

His thin lips twist, looking at the door rather than him. “I'm aware of how I can be-… Hm, I know that forcing an answer out of you, in the current state you’re in, would be incredibly painful.”

“That’s a rather considerate way of phrasing a threat.”

“It’s not-!!” He purses his lips in frustration and tries again, shaking his hands between them. “I’m not _threatening_ you, I’m merely establishing facts.”  
Martin lets out a dispassionate laugh, it feels cold as it moves through him. “You didn’t seem to mind the other day.”

Jon takes a measured breath, impassive. “I didn’t. I still stand by what I said. I’ve already apologized for my behaviour and, if I must, I will reiterate my statement in its entirety.” He speaks again before Martin can add anything else. “Most importantly, I know there’s more you’re not telling me, and I always know when there’s something I’m missing, and I just… can’t see it right now, not without hurting you.” He looks away again, seeming at a loss and quite agitated. “Which doesn’t mean I _want_ to hurt you to get that information, even if my suspicions turn out to be accurate. That’s not who I want to be.”

Martin doesn’t say anything back. Jon stands before him, much smaller and much wearier than ever before. He’s not a small man, Martin thinks, but he looks like someone whose only means to stay above water has been to look straight at the unknown and dive in, over and over again. He dares Martin to tell him the truth through the sheer intensity of his eyes and Martin… wants to give in.

_But would it matter if he gave him the entire truth? Would it matter if he knew it was just him? Could he bear to be yet another burden for him?_   
_Would he keep looking at you like this, if he knew who you were?_

As the silence stretches, Jon shifts slightly. “I don’t know if I can trust you, but I don’t think you want to stay like this forever, and that’s important. I’m not a mind r- I’m sort of a-” He stops abruptly and hikes his shoulders. “I’m trying to do better, and maybe you and everyone in this Archives can mock me once this is over but for now I can at least try to be decent to you until I’m proven r- wrong.”

Slowly, Martin feels a frail smile pull at his lips. “How generous.”

He glares at him and shakes his head. “What am I missing? Just tell me.” He adds briskly, looking at him half wary and half… God, did his eyes get bigger...  
Martin speaks as softly as his ruined voice would allow. “Did it really take me that much time to clean the windows? I can’t… quite tell the time around here.”

Jon opens his mouth to reply but snaps it shut instead, just nodding cautiously, frowning. 

“I think I just… wanted to look outside. It’s beautiful out there.”

The Archivist looks taken aback. He waits for Martin to elaborate and when there’s nothing else, he exhales sharply. “I suppose it is.” He states neutrally, disconcerted. Martin catches the way Jon’s jaw works as he seems to mull over something… 

Right. Stay focused… “I’m sure I could _enlighten_ you better if you could put a spell on them that didn’t… you know…”

Jon waits for the completion of the sentence, which never comes. “... That didn’t what? What’s wrong with this spell?”

“What’s-...” Martin is more baffled by the second. He looks at the windows again, just to make sure. “Can’t you see they’re completely obscuring the light now?”  
“No they’re not,” Jon replies with quick certainty.

“What, can you see in the dark?”

He scoffs, “Of course not.”

His frown deepens the longer Martin stares at him in silence. He seems reluctant to look away, but he tactically turns his body to inspect the space around them. He eventually faces Martin again, a deep-in-thought painted on him. 

“Do me a favour and cover your eyes.”

Martin doesn’t do so, Jon tks impatiently.

“I know you’re still looking at me. It won’t take long. Please.” He adds, almost reluctantly.

“Oh fine, fine.” 

As Martin presses his elbow to his eyes, he hears… He’s not sure what he’s hearing. There’s this pressure again, seizing around him, but now he catches soft, whispery sounds slithering nearby like sibilant gasps almost. Something is… clicking? No, that’s not right… 

He barely keeps from shouting as something quivers past his calf. The sensation is unexpected enough to make him quickly stumble backwards with a gasp. He hits the wall behind him, dropping his arm and-

The sound stops as soon as his view clears, which leaves the silence between them almost deafening in comparison. Jon looks perfectly normal… Well, as normal as an Archivist might be? Not that he knows. He’s holding his glasses between his clasped hands and looks at him with wide eyes, shifting and startled. He’s either embarrassed or furious, Martin can’t really tell. 

“I’m… Sorry, I wasn’t going to look…”

He nods almost ridiculously sincerely to Martin but Jon seems unaware of anything beyond his troubling thoughts. 

He looks… Haunted?

“Are you alright?” Martin can’t stop himself from asking. The Archivist almost startles.

“I may have miscalculated.” He simply says, which makes no sense to him but at this point what even does.

After a few beats, Martin decides to stick to his point. Maybe magic-users are just overall incomprehensible. “So, about the windows…”

He nods, nods- or shakes??- his head several times, perhaps shaking himself back into motion. “Of course, I’ll see what I can do.”

He seems to have a lot on his mind, but Martin… despite his failings, he does claim he wants to do better. Not so much of an olive branch as much as some kind of dubious twig waved in his direction, but he’ll take it. So maybe Martin should try as well.

“I appreciate it. Thank you, Jon.”

His fidgeting stops completely. 

For a few seconds, the stillness feels more terrifying than any reaction he’s seen from the magic-user up until that point. Even more terrifying than the moment Jon saw him in the castle for the first time. Even more terrifying than the green eye that appeared on his head, back at the Library. 

Jon levels a slow, overpowering gaze at him. He doesn’t move an inch closer, but nonetheless Martin feels himself flatten to the wall under its cold asperity. His mouth opens of its own volition when the tension becomes unbearable. 

“What? What is it now??” His voice scratches painfully, louder and higher than he had intended.

Jon blinks rapidly and takes a hurried step back, words tumbling out of his lips, sharp and prim. “Nothing-. Nothing. If you’ll excuse me…” 

When he sets into motion, Jon marches swiftly past him toward the stairs, keeping his head low. Martin doesn’t even get to place a word in as the door falls softly shut behind the man, leaving him thoroughly confused and bereft of answers.

At a loss, he briefly considers hiking up the creaking stairs after him, demanding explanations and ideally, irrationally, an immediate fix to the window situation. Or really _anything_ that might make sense, but instead Martin lumbers to the hearth in a strange daze, dropping in the chair with a winded “oof” sound. 

It’s for the best, obviously. How badly would it go for everyone involved if he actually had the nerves to knock some sense into him- No, wait, no knocking, that didn’t feel right. Thinking back on how Jon reacted, maybe he genuinely thought Martin was going to escalate things… The thought makes his stomach churn.

Gerry must have seen the entire argument, he realizes a little belatedly. Looking down at the fire demon, Martin sees him with a sombre look on his blue face.   
A childish thought surfaces amidst the remnants of confusion, the altercation between them only worsening in his mind’s eye. “I’m sorry Gerry. Are you… Did I do wrong? I didn’t mean to put you in danger-”

_Are you mad at me?_ , is what he can’t bring himself to say. That’s too much, even for him. But here he is, feeling his flakey lips crinkle as he presses them anxiously together, treating himself to visions of getting kicked out of the castle after one too many mistakes.

The spirit sighs heavily, though for some inexplicable reason it doesn’t bolster the flames as it usually does. The light coming from within the hearth looks oddly subdue, almost as if the dimness of the room has also limited its range. 

“That could have gone better, that could have gone worse.” He pauses thoughtfully, then tilts his head. “You weren’t wrong to tell him about it though.”  
It takes a second for Martin to remember that this was the cause of their argument. “Wait, you mean telling him about the windows?”

Gerry gives a lukewarm sideway nod. 

Martin huffs a little. “I mean… I don’t expect you to fight my battles, but couldn’t you have… told him something was wrong in the first place??”

“I could have.”

He looks at him incredulously. “... But?”

Gerry’s lips twitch downward as he looks away, “He’s getting worse. It’s not something I can help him with. Or rather, it is something I _can_ provide, but there’s only so much I can do before he does something rash and overtaxes himself… But that’s all I can tell you.”

Martin remembers a little guiltily the bargain he made with Gerry, the very reason why he was allowed to stay in the castle. He’s spent the last few days cleaning when he should have been looking for.. Anything. Clues or… 

“You wanted him to talk to me without interference?” He surmises, Gerry says nothing but doesn’t correct him either. “Alright… I’ll see what I can do to help. Sorry I got… distracted.”

Gerry gives him a tight little smile. “Much appreciated. He needs a fresh pair of eyes to keep himself in check.”

“... Not- Not literal eyes..?” 

Gerry looks at him impassively. “Oh no, any set of working eyeballs will do, they don’t even have to match. They don't even have to be yours either.” 

Martin doesn’t know what to make of that. This IS a place full of weird items that might have been someone’s organs at some point. Well, probably not the books… 

The fire slowly irks its green eyebrows at him. “Not literal eyes, Keats.” 

The fake name is enough to shake him out of his awkward panic. So he laughs uncomfortably instead, which only makes it more obvious.

“Thank goodness! I didn’t fancy going to the market first thing in the morning to fetch half a dozen of them!”

“Well, technically the market isn’t the best place if you only want half a dozen…” He says almost distractingly and then sees Martin’s aghast expression. He shakes his head slightly and frowns. “Anyway, he needs to know when he’s overdoing it. And don’t worry overly much. You’re going through a lot as well.” 

“Yeah, well… it’s just your luck I tend to worry overly much anyway.”

The fire gives him a tentative smile, which Martin replies to with one of his own. “Tough luck then.”

A soft lull settles between them, though even after a while, Gerry still seems preoccupied. Martin decides to steer the conversation to another point of interest. “So, he can see in the dark now?”

Gerry shrugs noncommittally. “For a while, most likely. He probably didn’t notice. You’ve seen the state of his glasses.”

“Hm… I may have?” 

Gerry irks a brow at the higher scratch in Martin’s voice but continues nonetheless. “For how perceptive he can be, he’s also terribly oblivious of matters that concern him personally. I’m not even sure he needs those to see anymore, he’s just used to wearing spectacles, with the cracks on its side and all.”

“Can’t he fix them?”

More shrugging, though Gerry does offer a wry smile at that. “Probably keeps forgetting about it too.”

“That’s a lot of ‘probably’ for someone you’re working with.”

“Hey I don’t need to be all-knowing all the time to poke fun at him, I might be made of fire and magic but I still have eyes.”

“... So his night vision has nothing to do with vampires then?” He jests in a stage whisper.

Wait… Come to think of it, Martin hadn’t seen him eat anything in the kitchen in the last few days…

Does he even _eat_??? Martin has seen him drink before, so surely… 

“Oh hell’s gate no, those things actually know how to mind their business. And they don’t get on people’s cases nearly as much.” 

His face drops, “Wait, they’re real?” 

“Oh yeah, although they’re not really what people think. They get mixed up with the Darklings a lot. Just a bunch of overzealous magic-users, big capes and fancy potlucks. It’s all fun and aesthetics until they do something dumb and they can’t get exposed directly to the sun anymore without going frantic. I can’t stand them. They’re so pretentious and haughty-”

“Well, that sounds familiar.”

“-but the minute you mention what a lovely day it is, they start ranting and raving over how they hate the sun and how one day people will realize how terrible it is. No, don’t give me that face, it’s true. I had to sit there and let one of them get all worked up over it, like those fighting fishes who get all cross when they see their own reflection.”

“Oh god…” Martin is barely covering the smile growing behind his hand. “Is it just a sun thing or…”

“Well… Sort of. They’re just not big fans of light in general.”

“So they probably didn’t really like you much either?”

It takes a few beats for Gerry to respond, but he replies slowly, looking deliberately away. “Yes, but not for the reason you might be thinking of.” He turns back to him with a pointed look. “Oh yeah, they also have a great situation going beyond the Northern Sea. They’ve got tenebrescence issues so they like it better over there, less sunlight, longer nights.”

Martin fumbles uncertainly. “... What does that even mean-?”

Gerry blinks calmly. “They get all shiny in broad daylight.” 

“What- No, wait, you’re just messing with me!” 

“Oh no, it’s true. I mean there’s a few around here, and vampires too.”

“I don’t know if you were aiming for reassurance but it’s really not.”

“It’s all true. ‘Swear it on my mum’s head.”

“Can fire demons even _have_ mothers??”

Gerry displays an impressive set of red teeth, sharp and vicious. “Well if I’ve ever had one, putting her head on the line would be the least of her worries.”  
… Right, _demon things_ , he supposes. It surprises Martin that he manages to forget Gerry’s nature sometimes.

Unable to go to bed just yet, Martin sifts through the cupboards in the kitchen, actually looking at the content he moved around when he was in a cleaning frenzy. One of which was orderly but still uncomfortably crammed with crinkly rectangular boxes. Martin hadn’t paid much attention to them. Their labels didn’t seem to be hand-drawn, though he wasn’t quite sure in which language they were written in… 

The easy round letterings have smaller prints below them and sequences of recognizable numbers. He isn’t sure what to make of them… 2008…? Most of them seem to range around those digits. Maybe that’s some exhaustive shipping number? The boxes do have some really nice wrappings on them.

Oh right, Martin focuses. Picking one solely based on its warm yellow and white colours, he breaks the transparent seal and opens the box cautiously. Though it’s faint, his guts tug as he recognizes the smell of chamomile.

… Well, fairly old chamomile. The comforting whiff of herbal tea has already vanished. It dawns on him how long it has been since he last made a cup of tea for himself. The thought feels almost ridiculous now that he’s thinking about it. 

How long has it been… 

Refusing to face the reality of the time he’s lost, he activates himself to find all the necessary items he had previously spotted around the cupboards until he stands proudly before a mostly completed, mismatched tea set. 

Two delicate teacups among them seem to come from nearly identical sets, white porcelain with rose gold seams. One has elegant painted gladioli on its sides while the other shows solitary loops of fire lilies. After a brief hesitation, Martin has the feeling those two should only be used for special occasions. He could all too easily picture himself breaking them out of clumsiness, which, if it were to happen, would probably break his heart. These are the nicest cups he’s seen in years…   
He puts them back delicately in the cupboard, promising to find them a prettier spot later on.

A few minutes later, Martin marches toward the hearth, raising an old kettle to his chest. “Gerry? Would you mind heating this up for me?”

The fire gives him a wary, discombobulated look. “I mean… I think there’s something for that in the kitchen?”

“Oh- Oh that! Erm. I don’t remember how to use it?”

“Right.” He says with a tepid glare at the kettle. Martin shifts to his other foot. 

“I mean, Tim showed me but I’m not sure... It looks easy, but he said it could explode or something-”

“Wait did he say he was too hot to use the stove again?”

“... Maybe? I just don’t get where I’m supposed to add the firewood...” Gerry’s face seems to grow thinner and longer at that, eyes positively flinty as the overall blue and purple turn into bright yellow and red. “Erm, well anyway, would you mind terribly, just this once? I’ll ask him again when he comes back.”

Gerry stares at him like that for a long while. “There’s a perfectly good stove in the kitchen.” He states adamantly. 

“Hm… Please?? It won’t take long with how high you’re running already?”

He doesn’t add more but grumbles acerbically, presumably at Tim, as he lowers his flames uneasily for Martin to come closer. The water sloshes dangerously and a few drops fall, making the fire demon hiss viciously. “Mate, mind the water!”

“Sorry!! Sorry, ok hold on…”

<0><0><0>

The room stirs unpleasantly as the soft whirring of a recorder echoes faintly. It sighs along with the weariness of its inhabitant, frantically drumming his fingers on the battered wood of the desk with a musical rhythm of clicks and stops. The Archivist notices the forcefulness of the motion, too late to stop the slow forming dents in the old polished surface under the repetition. He promptly snatched his hand from the desk altogether, opting to keep both of them over his laps instead. At least for the time being.

Unbeknownst to him, something- several somethings flutter quickly among more recorders occupying unsupervised shelves, sussuring silky secrets as they disappear just as quickly out of sight. 

But of course, the Archivist knew _of_ them. The same way you know the sighting of a few wayward moths usually heralds a much bigger infestation. There are too many of them to count now, and they grow ever so numerous by the day. 

He sighs again, deep and frustrated.

“Alright.” He says with a hint of resentment. The Archivist settles straighter in his chair.

“Statement log of Jonathan Sims, the Archivist,” he begins in a clipped tone. “Statement recorded from the Moving Archives, November 20th, 2017...” 

A long pause follows the introduction. The chair creaks as the Archivist leans.

“I’ve concentrated my investigation on the disappearance of Alice Tonner, former Hunter of the Council, better known as Daisy.”

He takes a deep breath, the room does so as well. Unlike him, the room doesn’t rattle as he steadies himself. 

“Following her disappearance and presumed death after our collaborative strike against the Circus, roughly a year ago, no traces of Daisy could be found among the dismantled remains of the Others’ Court, which opens a chasm of possibilities as to what might have happened to her that night. Dividing my time between Tim’s magical recovery, my… own recovery and the search for Daisy’s location has proven to be fruitless as further time passing diminished the likelihood of her survival. I… couldn’t find her. Not back then, and my occasional contacts with Oliver Banks only substantiates that she has not been returned to the ether yet.” 

He pauses, his voice a little less assured as he speaks again. “Despite her connection to the Council itself, she had been a fr- a valuable presence in those trying times. The Council, naturally, needed the immediate threat of the Circus quelled as quickly as possible. They had anticipated casualties, or at the very least _one_ casualty, though I don’t think they had anticipated her to follow after Tim. Or rather… for her to follow after me, following Tim…” 

A long silence stretches, a soft tapping is heard. “My latest contact at the Council, Basira Hussain, has recently left Kingsbury after what I must presume was a clue of Daisy’s current location. Daisy never spoke of their betrothal, which I had perhaps mistakenly presumed to be more of a political alliance than a romantic one. Basira acknowledged their dalliance but did not go into further details of it with me, so I didn’t press. I continued to look for Daisy… With Basira’s assistance, when she could spare her magic, but new pressing matters followed in the fallout of Tim’s defection from the Council, and neither of us had any more time to spare…; 

“... I refuse to think Basira would act in such haste unless she knew with absolute certainty that she could find Daisy. But, after three days of research, I can now neither find Daisy nor Basira. For how alarming that conclusion may be, I am forced to believe someone has been actively interfering with my _Sight_. Or at the very least, veiling them both from me. This significantly reduces the list of likely outcomes… And suspects.”

“... speaking of suspects… Today is the fourth day of our new resident’s stay in the Archives… Regardless of my personal bias toward him, it appears that any mild to concerning hindrance the man may have caused thus far could likely be attributed to nothing but astounding cluelessness, which, in a place of such concentrated power, can be incredibly dangerous if left unsupervised, for all the ones involved;

Jon tks, clicking his teeth. “Admittedly, this judgement might not be particularly charitable, and it begs the question as to why would Gerry have left him perform-...;  
“... He has no _training_. He shouldn’t be able to remove a spell of that potency without some kind of- an educated guess, at the very least. And what’s more, there must be an altering effect taking place downstairs. He does appear to be as harmless as it goes, but my instincts tell me his presence in the Archives will cause nothing but delays… There are so many questions left unanswered and it is becoming, frankly, increasingly difficult to keep myself from its distraction-”

A series of knocks on the door cuts the Archivist short. He waits in silence, too shocked to speak, until the knocking repeats again, a bit more assured now. 

He huffs tetchily, “I think that’s enough for you today.” He shifts his hand and stills as the metallic cord of a desk lamp dangles in a chittery chime as it swings in every direction. The Archivist had been sitting in complete darkness for quite some time now.

He hisses begrudgingly and turns on the green-tinted lamp acrimoniously, clicking off the recorder mercilessly. Unfairly. Much too soon.

<0><0><0>

It was a spur of the moment that brought him upstairs.

Prior to it, he hadn’t seen much of them beyond what he could see from the threshold on the first floor. Perhaps a bit out of fear for the Archivist upstairs kept him from climbing them without a purpose, or perhaps a bit out of his stubborn resilience at his own curiosity. He’d get to see it when he’d get to see it, he told himself. He had a lot to think about already.

There had been a few doors on the upper landing. One of them, facing the stairs, seemed to lead to an outside balcony overseeing the misty landscape of the green hills, still lusciously green despite the greying weather. An overbearing cloud took the entirety of the view away, and Martin quickly turned to look at the remaining doors, pretending the white in the door’s porthole wasn’t greedily clawing at his general direction.

They both looked rather similar, truth be told. There was a muffled voice coming from the one on the left and, knowing that Tim hadn’t returned to the castle yet, Martin decided to follow his impulse and knock on the door.

It’s only when he finally hears approaching footsteps that he realizes he doesn’t actually know what he’s doing. His hands clutch the definitely-clean mug held in them, the heat quickly reminding him of his earlier motivation. 

The door opens to a completely dark-lit room illuminating a desk covered in papers. Everything else beyond it is completely shrouded in darkness.  
Well, everything except the disgruntled man standing in the doorway, looking at him warily.

“Uh… Hi.”

“What is it?” Jon demands crisply. Martin is nearly tempted to take his tea back downstairs but the man’s bluntness emboldens him instead.

“I’m sorry to bother,” he says instead, embarrassed but most definitely not sorry. His eyes seem to drag toward the glimpse of the room he could catch over the other’s head. “I was just going through your cupboards and I just found tea and-...” At Jon’s unreadable sternness, Martin lets out an awkward laugh. “I just wanted to apologize for the- the windows… And Gerry and, you know. I know you could have kicked me out a while back. Or worse or- But you didn’t and, well, to be perfectly candid with you I’m not sure why?” His voice hitches a little higher. Martin looks away from the dark confines of the room and finally down at the stark man in the doorway. “There’s a lot of things I don’t really understand as well.” He finally says. 

Jon crosses his arms, holding his elbows. “Yes well, that would have been cruel, given your situation.” He says as evenly as can be. He eyes suspiciously the mug where Martin’s hands should be and then back up at him. The Archivist opens his mouth to say something when a strange sound comes from behind him. His lips snap shut as he closes his eyes, sighing in frustration. 

When he opens them again, they don’t look like they had downstairs. They just look tired. His hair looks glossy and thick under the glow of the lamp behind him. “Anything else I can help you with? Would you also like a tour of my room while you’re here snooping?”

What? Snooping?? He wasn’t snooping-... “I mean, would you give me one?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

He huffs a scratchy laugh. He’s sure he saw Jon’s lips twitch. “I figured as much. No, I just… wanted you to have this?” He gestures the mug forward. The other man looks at it dubiously. “It’s really not much but I think we really started on the wrong foot and-... I don’t understand your situation or any of this, or even _my_ situation, to be honest, but tea always made me feel better so I figured it was the least I could do to, erm… Thank you for your hospitality?”

The Archivist grimaces at the word but says nothing. Seems like they both knew it was somewhat of a stretch to call it that. 

He frowns at the mug. “I don’t remember keeping tea in the Archives,” he mutters, more for himself than for Martin’s benefit.

“Oh! Erm well, it might be a bit old but the taste was alright when I had mine earlier? Tim left some milk in that big icebox in the kitchen so uhm. Right. Would you like a cup of tea?”

Martin tries his best to look at him, even when more… clicking? Clicks and sharp, not-quite patters seem to come from deeper within the room. Jon seems aggrieved but overall unbothered by it. So maybe it was just him.

Oh wait, what if it _WAS_ just him-

“Yes, alright,” the Archivist finally replies. Unfolding his arms to take the mug from Martin’s invisible hands. Martin doesn’t react fast enough to avoid the predictable brush of their hands as the dish is taken gently from his grasp. He lets it go easily. He forgets to breathe for a moment. 

“Thank you, Keats. Goodnight.” Is all he hears before the door is finally closed in his face. 

Well, it wasn’t slammed shut at least. That was something.

He stands on the landing for a little too long perhaps, unthinkingly waiting to see if the voice of the Archivist would resume where he had interrupted him. Distant and deep and comforting and oooookay let’s move down the stairs. One step at the time, there we go.

Maybe this is just as good a time to call it a night after all. He makes sure Gerry has enough logs for the night before bidding him goodnight. Martin pretends to ignore the perceptive look he gives him as he moves to his own makeshift bed.

He hadn’t really slept on the little cot under the stairs more than once in the past few days, but there are distinctly more covers and bedsheets there than he remembers. He’s sure of it. Big ones too. He could practically make a nest out of them. Whichever spontaneously magical apparition left those there might have overestimated how many blankets were too many blankets. It’s… It’s very nice.

He pins one of the thinner sheets over the upper panel as a standby door between his meagre space and the living area. Blessed oblivion finds him easily that night.  
Too many blankets or not, he finally feels warm for the first time in days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I listened to the movie again not too long ago with my niece. I’ve never listened to the english dub and maybe I forgot but yes I definitely forgot how many fire puns Calcifer makes in French. There’s not _nearly_ that much in the book, I think. When I finally do get around to watch the english dub and the original japanese with english subs I’ll have to check if he also makes that many puns. Anyway just to say, I felt bad for making Gerry crack as many jokes but I'm vindicated. I guess I knew deep down in my heart. 
> 
> Oh, speaking of puns, I did say I’d mention the thing they did with Howl’s name in the French translation in the book. It’s honestly one of my favourite translation puns of all time. Although I feeeeeeel like I’ve gone on long enough in the notes. Ramble ramble ramble…
> 
> Anyway. Thank you all so much for reading. I love you all.
> 
> Next Chapter: Some Tim & Martin moments. Some “there’s something wrong with the Archivist” moments too. Are you guys ready for the next 2-3 chapters of freefall?

**Author's Note:**

> You can talk to me on Tumblr at [Midnightsingvogel](https://midnightsingvogel.tumblr.com/)


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